


A Discerning Eye

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: AU 19th Century, Civil War Memories, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Injured Mike, M/M, PTSD, insane asylum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:38:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 100,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Searching for peace and recovery, Mike Ross returns home after the war, only to face betrayal by a family member.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical fiction is hard, y'all. I've tried to stay alert to any and all anachronisms, but some may have slipped by. And the summary is pretty sparse and awful, but I don't want to give the story away. POV will alternate between Mike and Harvey. This will likely be a long one. Limits will be tested, fears overcome (mine, not necessarily the characters'). 
> 
> (Hesitates....crosses fingers and posts anyway.)
> 
> Edit: NOW with beautiful cover art by the amazing iamjohnlocked4life

**May 1865**

It was meant to be a celebration. A birthday dinner at _Delmonico's_ with his grandmother. Mike Ross had been discharged from the Fifth New York Regiment of the Union Army two months earlier, and was officially done with war. There wasn't enough champagne in the place, however, to ease the ache in his shattered knee, or to wash away the images of battlefield horror that paraded through his mind nonstop, day and night.

"You've barely touched your steak, Michael," chided his grandmother. Her eyes had been on him through the whole ordeal of dinner, sympathetic and worried. "You were always a skinny child, but I've never seen you like this."

Mike forced another bite to his lips and chewed mechanically, barely tasting what some claimed to be the finest filet of beef in the world. "I guess I'm not used to such fine food anymore. Or quite so much of it."

Or such opulent surroundings. The gaslight chandeliers cast a soft glow over white tablecloths, rich gold velvet curtains, and hand-stenciled wall coverings in green and gold. Everything, from the furnishings to the meal to the patrons' smart clothes, felt an unnatural and obscene contrast to the filthy army encampments and vile provisions he’d grown used to. He felt like a bumpkin in the too big tailcoat which his father had worn twenty years earlier. The more fashionable men at the tables nearby were all dressed in double-breasted frock coats, and cast the occasional scornful look his way, which he endeavored to ignore.

"Nonsense," Grammy was saying. “I remember what an extravagant table your parents set. I flatter myself that I was able to keep something close to their standards when you came to live with me."

Mike sighed and nodded distractedly. Up until two years ago, the boating accident on the Hudson that had claimed his parents had felt like the greatest tragedy of the world. Since then, he'd experienced true tragedy firsthand, and had seen so much violent, bloody death that his parents' passing seemed peaceful by comparison.

A soft finger touched the back of his hand. "Where'd you go, Michael?"

He shook his head, trying to summon up a smile for this woman to whom he owed so much. "Sorry. I suppose I was merely searching for the best way to break the news to you."

She frowned. "News?"

"I'm returning to Rossmont."

There followed a brief, weighted silence, during which his grandmother turned pale. "No, Michael. I forbid it."

His eyebrows rose at this. "Forbid? Grammy, I'm a grown man. I turn twenty-one in two days, and that property comes legally into my possession." He reached over and grabbed her hand, doing his best to ignore how frail and papery it felt. "My parents left the estate to me. They wished for me to have it. And frankly, this city is a strain to my nerves just now."

He could have said more, about how every loud noise had him startling, and wanting to jump out of his skin, and how he felt the need to keep watch all about him when walking the sidewalks, half-expecting a ball of lead to slice through him, finishing the job that the one which ruined his knee had begun.

His grandmother, Edith Ross, was not a woman to give up easily when she believed she was in the right. "Michael, you haven't set foot at Rossmont in over ten years. The Sidwells have looked after it with the utmost competence, and from all accounts I've heard, your cousin Logan has developed into a fine steward. You'll retain the income from the estate – plus considerably more when you come into your majority in two days. I want you to stay here and make something respectable of yourself, not wither away in that savage backwoods." _Like your father did,_ was implied, but left unsaid.

Now Mike had to smile. "Is that truly how you remember it? I remember peace, and quiet beauty, and wide green meadows -- so much blessed space." Wide meadows not clogged with bloody bodies packed so close that one was forced to walk from one side to the next without touching the ground. He fought down a shudder and, as he had done so often lately, filled his mind with words to block the memories. Ironically, this time in its randomness his mind chose Irving's _Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ as the flimsy blockade. He'd always loved that book as a child, and the way in which it mirrored his home.

His grandmother hadn't given up the argument, though. "That place killed your parents. It may seem pastoral in your memories, but as perfect as your recall is, you're interpreting through a child's eyes. I saw how my James changed after Lily dragged him up there. He left here a well-respected professor of art history, and she turned him into a glorified farmer."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Farming is honest work. You know very well that the estate yields more than mere produce. And Rossmont is all of sixty miles north of here."

"It might as well be six hundred."

"Nonsense. My father loved it there. We had a most agreeable life." He reached for his champagne and took a quick gulp to cover the emotion that had welled up in him. "I've made up my mind. At the very least, it will be a more suitable place for my recuperation than here, where I'm in constant danger of being run down by a wagon, or set upon by cutpurses. Don't even get me started on the perils of Five Points, and the Bowery."

He couldn't stop the quick flush that came as he spoke this last out loud. He'd visited a certain saloon in the Bowery on several occasions since his return, and had every intention of making at least one more foray there before his departure. His grandmother must never know about that, however.

"Oh, _pish._ No one's saying you have to frequent those places." She eyed him closely, seeming to finally acknowledge his resolve. "Just stay with me until your knee improves. Until you can walk without your cane."

"I'll get more exercise on the gentle pathways at Rosswood than I ever will here."

"Well then -- and I can't believe I'm suggesting this -- take the Evans boy with you. He may be a scoundrel, but he managed to keep you safe for the last two years."

"Safe? Have you forgotten the small matter of my injury?" Mike quipped.

"He kept you alive. Take him with you, with my blessing."

Mike sighed and set his fork on his plate. He wouldn't be eating any more tonight. "I don't know where Trevor is, Grammy. I lost track of him after Petersburg. Anyway, he'd taken to insisting that after the war was finished, he was heading west. I planned to join him, but then … " He gestured at his ruined knee.

She shook her head, her expression serious and sad. "I'm certain he'll land on his feet, but how will he find you if you've disappeared into the wild north?"

"I'm depending on you for that."

Edith nibbled on her food for a few minutes longer, seeming to mull over everything that Mike had said. Finally, she set down her knife and fork and sipped her champagne. "I wish you weren't going, James, but I realize you have to make your own choices."

Mike's heart stopped for half a second. "Grammy?"

"Oh." She jerked, as if startled. "Yes?"

He gave a careful laugh. "You just called me James." He regretted his words as he saw the deep flush that colored her cheeks.

She waved a hand dismissively. "A slip of the tongue, nothing more."

He stared at her for long moments, trying to decide if it was anything more than that. This was Grammy, though, his rock and strength since his parents' passing. If anyone was permitted the occasional slip, it was her.

"Now," said Edith decisively, "let's stop talking about all this nonsense and order dessert. They still have the strawberry cream you used to adore."

He wasn't hungry, and longed for his bed, but he smiled good-naturedly. "That sounds perfect."

 

******

 

Mike checked the address on Fifth Avenue for his grandmother's solicitors once more, and discovered they were located in a new looking building, seven stories high and topped by a mansard roof. Inside the lobby, the doorman gave him a suspicious look, but directed him to the third floor. With a resigned sigh, Mike began the arduous climb, his cane clicking on each step, consoling himself that it could have been worse – they could have been located on the top floor. He arrived at the offices of Hardman & Dennis out of breath and wincing with pain. A young man at the front desk told him to wait on one of the velvet settees in the lobby, and he gratefully lowered himself into it, easing his leg out to rest straight in front of him.

Daniel Hardman might have secured offices in an impressive location, but Mike was not impressed with his lack of punctuality. As the throbbing in his knee slowly subsided, he took in his surroundings. The floors were polished walnut, covered with lush, intricately woven carpets from Persia. Watered silk adorned the walls, in between dark walnut shelving which held the firm’s impressive collection of law books and journals. Men in sober morning coats, dark silk looped ties with diamond stick pins and embroidered waistcoats, walked past every so often, engaged in what appeared to be deep, serious conversation. No one spared him more than a glance.

One man caught Mike's especial notice. He was dark-eyed, perhaps an inch taller than Mike, with well-pomaded hair and crisply short sideburns. Unlike the customary fashion of the day, he had no facial hair, and Mike could not help but admire his stark, angular features, haughty expression, and strong, compactly muscled form. The unknown man strode past, appearing not to even register Mike's presence. It was just as well. He'd had enough of violence, and had no wish to incite it, particularly in one so fine looking, by making his unnatural feelings too obvious.

Finally, a full thirty minutes after his scheduled appointment, the young front desk clerk escorted Mike down the hall to Hardman's office. Its furnishings mirrored those of the front lobby, with the addition of a large oil portrait of Hardman seated in front of a huge marble hearth, with two hunting hounds lying at his booted feet. It was difficult not to laugh, or scoff openly at such ridiculous hubris, but Mike kept his sober countenance as Daniel Hardman came out from behind his desk to shake hands.

"Mr. Ross. How delightful to meet you in person at last." He sounded anything but delighted. "I was so pleased to hear that you made it back from the recent unpleasantness intact." His gaze flickered down to Mike's knee. "Nearly intact. My sympathies. Please have a seat."

Mike was still marveling over Hardman's turn of phrase. "Recent unpleasantness" hardly seemed adequate to describe the hell on earth Mike had witnessed firsthand. The war had now concluded, with Lee's surrender over a month previous, but it still waged in Mike's head, as he assumed it did in the heads of the countless other survivors.

So caught up in his thoughts had he become, that it took him a moment to realized that a thin sheaf of papers now sat on the desk in front of him, and Hardman was holding out a fountain pen for him to take. With a hard swallow, Mike accepted the pen, and proceeded to sign and initial the legal papers in all the places indicated by Hardman. When he was finished, they both stood, Hardman shook his hand again, and Mike limped to the exit, now in full control of the trust fund left to him by his parents, and legal owner of the Rosswood Estate on the Hudson River.

He was going home.

 

******

 

Mike almost decided to cancel his plans to visit the dangerous Bowery district. His meager possessions were packed, and he was scheduled to leave for the train station early in the morning. It would be a difficult day of travel, and he needed his sleep. He doubted, though, that he would find any opportunities in Greenbush and its environs to seek out the sort of carnal pleasure he craved. So he drank an extra dose of laudanum to dull the pain in his knee, and hired a private carriage and driver to take him south of East Houston Street to Eldridge, and a nondescript doorway behind which lay _The Sink,_ a men's club which was most certainly not a gentlemen's club.

Mike knew the doorman, who let him in with a curt nod. He made immediately for the long bar in the back of the smoky room, a shiver going down his spine at the murmured lewd comments which followed him. He ordered a shot of whiskey for courage and waited. As usual, he did not have to wait for long. A strong hand landed on his shoulder, and a voice, only slightly slurred with drink, murmured in his ear. "I have a private room in back for the next half hour. Don't waste my time. Yes or no?"

Mike nodded his head immediately. He had little time to waste either, and a private room here was considered a luxury. Too often, he'd pleasured his partners in the alley behind the saloon, and the ground was hell on his bad knee. "Lead the way," he said, and followed the broad back down a dark, cramped hallway, and into a shadowy room that was barely big enough to contain a narrow bed with stained, sagging mattress.

Mike didn't waste any precious seconds with squeamishness. He leaned his cane against the wall, sat on the mattress and grabbed the stranger by bottom hem of his waistcoat. "I want to suck you."

"You read my mind."

They worked together to unbutton the other man's trousers. Like most of the men who came to _The Sink,_ Mike preferred anonymity, but he couldn't resist a quick peek at the man's face. What he saw made him freeze for a few seconds. Even in the dim lighting, he recognized the austere face. It was the man he'd seen and admired at Hardman  & Dennis.

"I asked you not to waste my time," growled the stranger, freeing himself from his trousers and holding his cock as if it was a weapon. "I hope you know what you're doing. I've no wish to school an inexperienced pup."

Mike put the mysterious man's identify out of his head. It didn't matter. They'd never cross paths again. The only issue of importance in this stolen moment was the hard, beautiful cock, already wet at the tip, waiting for Mike's mouth. Determined to show this arrogant man that he knew more than a thing or two about pleasuring a man, Mike leaned in and licked the moisture from the tip with a confident swipe of his tongue. Seemingly mollified, the man allowed Mike to take custody of the long, thick shaft.

Holding the base in one hand, Mike mouthed the remainder, tonguing and slurping his way down until the head bumped up against the back of his throat. He could go considerably deeper, but chose to keep that skill in reserve for now. He concentrated on getting the cock good and wet, and teasing with his tongue, finding all of the sensitive spots, one by one, that made the man groan louder, and clutch more tightly at Mike’s hair. Bobbing his head up and down, one hand played with the man’s balls, he made the pleasing discovery that the stranger liked it when Mike squeezed a bit harder than was polite.

Fingers tightened in his hair, and Mike raised his gaze, giving the man a questioning look even as his mouth remained full.

“Time grows short,” the man murmured unsteadily. “Get on with it, pup.”

With a grunt of assent, Mike released the base of the cock, relaxed his throat, and descended until his nose pressed against wiry hair and warm, tender flesh.

“How the blazes … ” gasped the stranger.

Hands cradled the back of Mike’s head, and strong thighs trembled against his cheek and forehead. He dragged his tongue back and forth, and hummed, even as he throat convulsed and swallowed, providing as much pleasure as he could. He gripped the man’s hips in order to improve his attack.

“I’m close, pup.”

Mike groaned. He pictured the stranger pulling out and spending himself all over Mike’s face and clothing. This was his favorite sort of completion, but both his grandmother and her staff were too sharp of eye to avoid questions. Happily, swallowing thrilled him nearly as much. When the stranger’s hips began to stutter, Mike gave him one last hard suck, and let his lips slip back up the slippery length, giving himself room to suckle and swallow the thick, salty spend, which at that moment tasted better to him than the finest champagne from _Delmonico’s._

He continued sucking and swallowing until hands pulled him firmly away. “Enough. Get me put away and back to rights.” Then he watched, eyes dark and intent, while Mike did as he’d been ordered. He’d just begun to fear that his efforts would not be rewarded, when the man barked out, “Stand with your hand braced against the wall.”

Mike stood, trying not to wince noticeably at the pain in his knee. The laudanum was wearing off.

In a somewhat gentler tone, the man asked, “Are you able to manage?”

Mike nodded briskly and moved into position. With the wall supporting much of his weight, it was indeed bearable. He forgot all about his knee and any physical discomfort when he felt the solid body pressed to his back, and those long, strong fingers working at the fastenings of his trousers. The trousers whispered to the ground, followed by his drawers. A finger appeared in front of his mouth.

“Suck it. Get it nice and wet.”

A shiver when through him, and he sucked the stranger’s finger. Seconds later, he felt the finger prodding at his most intimate place, seeking entrance. He’d pressed his own finger inside himself a few times, but remained otherwise virginal. The thick finger pushed into him, bringing with it a deliciously sinful burn which had him wriggling his bottom, seeking more. At the same time, he imagined something as large as the cock he’d just sucked thrusting into him, and whimpered.

Mistaking the sound, the man chuckled. “Ah, don’t falter now, little bitch. You can take it, and you will.” Two fingers thrust into him and held. His other hand came around to grasp Mike’s cock.

“Oh god,” Mike gasped. The feel of both hands, and the debasing language, riled him up like never before. He jerked forward, fucking into the man’s fist, and then backwards, riding his fingers. Pure sensation scoured the ugly images of the last two years from his mind. He sped up, working himself, being worked over, feeling himself take flight from the astonishing onslaught of pleasure.

Time fell away. He thrashed and humped like a wild man, and it could have been a few minutes, or it could have been an hour. Too soon, his spine seemed to melt as pleasure crashed through him, stronger and with more violence than he’d ever experienced before. He cried out, howling without restraint until a hand covered his mouth, muffling his sounds of unbridled bliss.

It had to come to an end finally. Hands left him, leaving him alone, braced against the wall, forehead leaning against one arm, and panting hard, his back heaving up and down. This was normally the point where his partner of the moment made their escape, so it was with a great deal of surprise that he felt those two pleasuring hands engaged in the mundane task of putting his clothing back to rights.

“Thank you,” he whispered as the last of his buttons were fastened. He straightened away from the wall, only to find his cane thrust into his hand.

Still, the other man hesitated. “Watch yourself on the street out there. This neighborhood is not the best.”

Mike made a scoffing noise. “I survived a war. I think I can survive a few unsavory city blocks.” He frowned at the wall. The images he’d just managed to block out were back once more, full force. He shook his head sharply, trying to dispel them. “Besides, I have a carriage waiting.”

“Of course. Well then, I’ll take my leave.”

And he was gone. The sudden melancholy that swept through Mike made no sense, but he knew for a certainty that he would remember that austere visage until the day he left this earth. He would also remember the taste of his cock, and the feel of his hands, and the heart stopping sense of freedom their frantic coupling had brought him.

With a weary sigh, he hobbled out of the room, to the front of the saloon, praying that his carriage was, in fact, still waiting for him. It was, the driver grumbling, even though Mike had already doubled his fare to get him to stay.

 

******

 

**Rossmont Estate**

“Have some more of the port, Michael. It really is extraordinary.”

Mike gazed down the long table, into the smiling face of his cousin, Logan Sanders. He hadn’t seen the boy – a man now – since he’d gone to live with his grandmother in New York. Logan had matured into a shockingly handsome man, tall, and broad of shoulder, and dark-haired, with an angelic sort of sweetness in his smile. It was hard not to stare, but Mike forced himself to look away, and poured himself a third glass of the tawny port wine.

Mike remembered the sullen little bully Logan had once been, how he had teased and taunted and made Mike miserable ever since he’d shown up on the Ross’s doorstep. At the time, he’d despised him with every fiber in his small body, even after being scolded by his mother, who was in the midst of grieving for her dead sister. Now, having experienced the same pain of losing both parents at once that Logan had – his to cholera – Mike was more inclined towards sympathy. Seven year old Logan had traveled up from New Orleans by train all on his own, and he’d continued his self-sufficient ways as long as Mike had known him.

“Good?” asked Logan, one eyebrow raised. He was drinking whiskey with dinner – roast duck with béarnaise sauce, pickled beets and new potatoes – but had insisted that Mike sample the excellent vintage port that had been saved since before the war.

“Spectacular.” He sipped some more, growing warm and agreeable, blinking at the bright, flickering candles that sent shadows bending this way and that throughout the dining room. The trip to Rossmont had been every bit as taxing as he’d feared, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse face down in his bed. Logan had ordered a welcome dinner prepared in his honor, however, and Mike couldn’t bring himself to turn him down. They would need to grow reacquainted, after all, and learn to get on together. This dinner could start them in the right direction. “You should join me, though. Set that vile whiskey aside.”

“Ah. Better not.” Logan tossed back the whiskey in his glass and poured some more. “I’m just the hired help, after all. Got to keep my place.” He grinned, white teeth shining in the candlelight.

“What? No. No, no no. Not at all.” The words slurred weirdly leaving his mouth. “You’re family. I wanna … That is, I wish for you to consider yourself as such.”

Logan smiled, but the candlelight flickering between them did not reveal any hint of the smile in his eyes. He raised his glass to Mike. “To family.”

“To family.” Mike downed his glass, and swayed slightly in his chair as the spirits hit his bloodstream full force. He wished he’d skipped his dose of laudanum this evening. “That is strong.” His hands scrabbled at this collar, loosening his tie and tugging at the stiff material of his shirt to ease the sudden sense of heat washing through him. He forced out a laugh. “I-I’m afraid I’ve overdin … I mean, overindulged, cousin.”

Suddenly, Logan was right there, leaning over him with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right … _cousin_. Let me assist you upstairs.”

Mike wanted to protest that he didn’t need help, and wished to finish the meal, but his mouth wouldn’t work properly. He did feel poorly, he realized. His confused mind put it down to the combination of laudanum, too much port, and the strain of travel. So he allowed himself to be helped out of his chair, and led out of the room. Instead of the daunting staircase to the second floor, however, Logan walked him to the back door.

Even in his impaired state, Mike remembered that Logan’s quarters lay this way. He gave a surprised, breathless laugh. “Cousin, I would never have guessed … “

This was as far as he got. The door opened to reveal a pair of men in dark overcoats lounging near a wagon. Two horses hitched to the wagon shuffled nervously as light from inside the house illuminated a slice of the scene.

“This is him?” asked one of the men, straightening up.

Mike lost the fight with his legs – both the good one and the bad one – slumping heavily against Logan’s side.

“Damnation,” Logan bit out. “Grab him for me before he hits the ground.”

Two different sets off hands reached for Mike, dragging him towards the wagon. He wanted to protest, wanted to struggle and fight, but no part of his body obeyed his mind’s frantic commands. The two strangers threw him unceremoniously into the back of the wagon, where he lay like a pile of rags.

His hearing was the last thing to fail, and before he slipped into the beckoning darkness, he heard Logan’s voice speaking. “Here are the committal papers, all proper and legal. Hand them over to Superintendent Brooks, and then get back here as soon as you’re able, to collect the rest of your fee.”

“Legal, you say?” grumbled one of the men. “You don’t think Jonathan and Mary will raise a fuss? Or that grandmother of his in the city?”

“Don’t worry about any of that, boys. I’ve thought of everything. Now get moving. It’s a long way to Utica. Here. Take this. Give him another dose in four hours, and keep it coming. If anyone asks any questions when you board the train, just tell them he’s a patient, which isn’t precisely a lie.”

The voices became muffled, and anything else they might have said was lost to Mike as he gave up the fight and let the darkness fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:  
> \- The first passenger elevator installed in a New York office building was in 1870 for Equitable Life Building, which is why Mike was forced to climb the stairs in 1865.  
> \- Chronologically, this story may be a couple of decades too early to coincide with gay subculture in the Bowery district, so I've taken a bit of license here with The Sink. 
> 
> The title comes from this Emily Dickinson poem:
> 
> Much Madness is divinest Sense -  
> To a discerning Eye -  
> Much Sense - the starkest Madness -  
> ’Tis the Majority  
> In this, as all, prevail -  
> Assent - and you are sane -  
> Demur - you’re straightway dangerous -  
> And handled with a Chain –
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly three years have passed.

**January 1868**

 

The silky fluff of hair in which Harvey Specter’s nose rested shifted and its owner mumbled something unintelligible, which may have included the word "morning". Harvey tightened his arms around the slim waist and threw a leg over the young man's calves, which were already tangled up in his blanket.

The young man -- Joshua? -- put up a half-hearted struggle, which brought his round little arse into delicious contact with Harvey's awakening prick. He held him more tightly and whispered in his ear, "Where do you think you're going? The sun is barely up."

Exerting more effort -- Jeremiah? -- managed to turn in Harvey's grasp to face him. His light gray eyes sparkled with mischief, which Harvey took as a good sign. "Which is why I need to make myself scarce. I know how this works."

"It works a little differently here at Missus Paulsen's … Jason, is it?"

"Jamie."

"Right. Jamie. I have excellent news for you. My landlady is extraordinarily open-minded, and my first meeting of the day isn't until ten, so why don't you get that talented mouth back on me and let's see if you can out-do your performance from last night."

"That will cost you another dollar."

"Of course."

Harvey maneuvered Jamie so that he knelt over Harvey with his bottom in the perfect position for Harvey's tongue and fingers to play with him while the boy's mouth greedily devoured him. This pleasurable diversion lasted for long minutes, until Harvey began to feel himself growing too close to completion. He gave Jamie a slap on the rump and rearranged things so that he knelt behind Jamie, and then drove into him with enough force to make the experienced little whore grunt and cry out. Minutes later, Jamie keened without restraint as Harvey stroked him roughly to completion.

With the boy's needs seen to, Harvey gave himself free reign, and pounded and plundered mindlessly, shaking the bed and thumping the iron frame against the wall until familiar, matchless pleasure tore through him. His vision went white and the world faded away for a few blissful seconds. He shuddered, and gripped the boy to him, biting his shoulder and vowing to remember his name for the next time that his needs grew too pressing to ignore.

Reluctantly pulling out, he rolled onto his back, panting as he reached into the chest of drawers next to the bed. He grabbed Jamie's hand and wrapped it around a five dollar gold piece. Ignoring the boy's cry of delight, Harvey dropped back onto the pillows. "Get out." He heard no complaints as the boy gathered his clothes, dressed silently and rapidly, as if he'd had plenty of practice, and slipped out of the room.

Yes, he'd definitely remember his name, because that deserved a repeat performance.

******

At least once a week, Harvey Specter congratulated himself for having the good sense five years ago to answer the advertisement for lodging at Missus Paulsen's Boarding House. Donna Paulsen’s rates were low, her rooms spacious, and the woman herself scrupulously discreet. She could also match him glass for glass of whiskey, could shoot out the center of an ace of spades from one hundred yards away, and out bluff the craftiest card sharp. She named herself "The Widow Paulsen," but had confessed to Harvey years ago that she'd never been married. Of the half dozen tenants that called her boarding house home, he alone knew how she'd earned the money to buy the house, but he would take that secret to his grave.

For her part, Donna never uttered a complaint or batted a perfect eyelash over Harvey's parade of bedmates. Quite the opposite, in fact. Often enough, it was Donna who procured the pretty young man of the moment. She had excellent taste. It wasn't that Harvey couldn't find his own playthings, but his rise to partner at Hardman & Dennis meant fewer leisure hours, and a greater need for discretion. He'd been forced to stop frequenting _The Sink_ after yet another police raid had nearly caught him in its net. With his growing reputation as the lawyer to hire if one found oneself in a tough spot, he didn't need his own name linked to anything illegal or unsavory.

When he sauntered downstairs and into the dining room half an hour later, he was still smiling. Donna sat in her place at the head of the table, nose buried as usual in a dime western. He noted the title with amusement: _Crack Skull Bob._ The illustration on the cover showed Bob preparing to crack the skull of a bare-chested Indian with a rather fine physique.

"Another modern classic?" he asked, reaching for the coffee pot in the middle of the table. Donna spent every spare moment -- and every spare coin -- on her dime novels, and had amassed an impressive collection. Out of boredom, Harvey had read one or two. They seemed to follow a common theme: rough wilderness fellow fights through obstacles (usually hordes of "savages"), saves fair maiden, and is revealed in the end to be of gentlemanly or even noble birth.

"Mm hmm," replied Donna, flipping to the next page and barely sparing him a glance. "I believe Bob is my new favorite."

"He looks like a most unpleasant fellow."

"I'm certain he possesses a gentle heart underneath the rugged exterior."

"No doubt. And only the fiery young beauty he rescues will recognize his true nature." He sipped coffee and eyed the buttermilk biscuits.

Donna marked her place with a silk ribbon and closed the slim book. "Don't spoil the ending for me." She looked Harvey up and down. "You're wearing your favorite gray waistcoat. Important meeting?"

He shrugged and set down the porcelain cup with a click. "Daniel has summoned me."

She made a moue of distaste and swung her thick red hair over one shoulder. "My condolences. Have you finally angered him beyond repair?"

"I don't know, and I'm not about to find out standing around here gossiping with you."

She picked up her book, looking past him over his shoulder. "No one is stopping you. Good morning, Rachel."

Harvey turned slowly to take a look at the new boarder. Both Donna and Travis and especially poor Harold had raved eloquently and at length on the newcomer's beauty. He had to admit, she was striking, with flawless skin the color of coffee and milk, upswept raven-colored hair, and a tart smile.

"Rachel Zane," Donna was saying, "this is Harvey Specter. His room is just above yours."

Rachel gave an unladylike snort. "Don't I know it. Although after last night I was under the impression that your name was 'Ah god, oh jesus christ, harder sir, harder!'" She smiled sweetly and went for the coffee. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Harvey knew his mouth had fallen open. For one of the few moments in his life, words failed him.

Donna, damn her, had doubled up in delighted laughter. "Oh, I'm definitely going to like you. Yes, I believe we will become great friends."

Harvey mumbled his goodbyes, but was largely ignored by the pair of them, who were gabbling away together already.

 

******

 

“Harvey, come in. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Harvey schooled his features to impassivity and entered Daniel Hardman’s huge corner office. After seven years working for the pompous little man, he had learned that being personally summoned to assist on one of Daniel’s cases almost always led to nothing good. When he caught sight of the client already in the office, he nearly groaned out loud. The young man paced restlessly, as if not accustomed to being indoors. His manner of dress could only be described as … Harvey searched for an adequate word, and settled upon “coarse.”

The fabric of his trousers was rough and faded – and poorly patched in several places. His hip-length jacket still had dust on it, as if the boy had ridden directly off the Chisolm Trail and hadn’t had the time – or good manners – to make himself presentable. A dark untrimmed beard covered a hard and brooding face. His worn-down boots appeared as dusty as the jacket (and likely had horse shit stuck to the soles), and the hat he held in his hands boasted a flatter crown and wider brim than any Harvey had seen before, except for the illustrations in Donna's beloved dime westerns. The client, if that is what he was, even wore a pair of pistols holstered on a worn and cracked leather belt sitting low on his hips.

Harvey narrowed his eyes, reflecting that everything about the young man spoke of misdeeds and the life of an outlaw. What was he doing in the office of the managing partner to the most prestigious law firm in New York City? More importantly, how could he afford their fees?

“Harvey? I’d like you to meet Mr. Trevor Evans.”

With some reluctance, Harvey walked further into the room and shook Evan’s hand, giving a tight nod as he did so. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The man had a firm handshake, at least.

“Daniel claims you’re the best.”

Harvey experienced a flare of pride, followed immediately by both surprise and suspicion. Daniel’s plan was clearly to flatter Harvey into taking on some unpleasant task. The tactic had worked often enough in the past. This time he was determined to best the man.

“Daniel is too kind,” said Harvey, and then grinned. “He is also quite correct. Unfortunately, I’m afraid I have several other matters that are rather pressing, so I’m going to have to excuse myself.”

“Harvey.” The quiet snap of command in Daniel’s voice brought up his hackles, as usual. “Sit down. Mr. Evans is here on a matter of more pressing importance than anything you currently have on your plate.”

Tempting as it was to manufacture a fake new case and make his excuses, Harvey didn’t rate his chance of success highly. He’d tried that ploy a time or two before, to no avail. So he gave a short nod, just this side of gracious, and seated himself in one of the wing chairs facing Daniel’s enormous desk, leaning to one side and positioning himself so that Daniel’s head blocked out most of the abomination of a painting hanging on the wall behind him. The narcissistic fool – who Harvey knew for a fact could barely sit a horse properly – had been painted with two elephantine hunting hounds lying at his feet.

Evans sat next to Harvey, perching on the edge of the seat as if ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Somewhere, conjectured Harvey sourly, there existed a wanted poster with the young man’s face on it.

“Why don’t you repeat your story for Harvey,” said Daniel. “From the beginning.”

Evans nodded once, jaw tightening. “Well, you see, I have this friend. Michael Ross. Mike. We served together in Virginia. But I knew him before that, from the time his folks passed and he moved here to live with his grandmother. Her name is Edith Ross, and she’s important to understanding the whole story.”

Harvey shifted in his seat, leaning back and crossing his legs. He had no idea where Evans’s recitation was heading, but so far he was bored as hell.

“Mike’s parents owned an estate on the Hudson, a little more than a day’s ride north of here. I’ve never been there, but according to Mike, the estate consisted of acres of forest, fruit orchards, farmland, a bit of light industry, candle-making, that sort of thing. His father had also invested wisely, and owned significant shares in a couple of railroads, a shipping company, an ironworks, and a brick-making factory. Both mother and father had … unique views on how society should be arranged and refused to live the lavish lifestyle of many of their neighbors. They farmed the land themselves, and were mostly self-sufficient.”

“Dear me, how delightfully eccentric.” Harvey knew he sounded dismissive, but didn’t care.

Evans shot him a narrow-eyed glance. “Maybe. They never hurt anyone, though, and perhaps Mike inherited a few of their odd notions, but he never hurt anyone neither.”

Harvey gave an amused huff. “He must not have been a terribly successful soldier.”

Evans jumped to his feet, hands clenched into fists. “Mike Ross is the best and the bravest man I know. He doesn’t deserve any of this, and I ought to knock your teeth down your throat for suggesting otherwise.”

Harvey rose slowly, prepared to defend himself if need be. “You’re welcome to try, sir.”

“Boys,” scolded Daniel, “behave yourselves. Both of you.”

Turning his head slowly, Harvey favored Daniel with a hard glare. How dare he lump him together with this … _lump_? He would certainly speak to him later, in private, about such treatment. For now, he simply wished to get the facts of the case from the young hot head next to him, and get back to his important clients. He sat slowly, and after a moment, a scowling Evans did the same.

“So far,” said Harvey, “I’ve learned that you have a dear friend, who was orphaned at some point in the past, and who, if I’m understanding you correctly, was left a handsome living by his parents. Now perhaps you can explain why you have need of an attorney.”

“Mike came into his full inheritance on his twenty-first birthday. That would have been nearly three years ago. I lost track of him when the war ended. I … “ He grimaced. “I required space, so I traveled west. I would have taken Mike with me, but he was badly injured at Petersburg, and couldn’t sit a horse. He had his grandmother, though, who lives here in the city and has a tolerably nice living as well, inherited from her mother.”

The tale made less and less sense. “Does Michael Ross still live?”

Evans nodded.

Harvey directed a confused look in Daniel’s direction, but received no help from that quarter. “Why, then, is Mr. Ross not here, speaking for himself?” A thought occurred to Harvey. “Was he horribly disfigured?”

“No. The last I saw of him, he was healing, although he still walked with a cane.”

“Mr. Evans … “

The young man shifted restlessly, appearing to grow more and more frustrated. “I’m telling this the best way I can. Just have some patience. I was out west until a couple of weeks ago. As soon as I got back, I went looking for Mike and Grammy.”

“Grammy?”

“Sorry. His grandmother. Edith Ross. Anyway, the townhouse was dark, and I knocked for nearly ten minutes before her maid let me in. This woman – Edith, that is – once had the most impressive home, and a large, efficient staff who were unfailingly kind to me, even though … Anyway, now, it turns out, she retains only the one maid, Jenny, and a terrifying, elderly, half-blind cook named Norma. I doubt she’s paid either in a few months, but they’ve stayed on out of loyalty. When I first visited, they were down to a couple loaves of moldy bread and a handful of salted beef. I used my own money to restock the pantry.”

Now Harvey snorted. “So the grandson abandoned his dear old benefactress. Not such a paragon after all.”

“I won’t warn you again … “

Harvey held up a hand. “Your pardon.” He wasn’t certain why he kept antagonizing the man. Something about him rubbed him the wrong way.

“Edith is housebound – practically bedridden. I managed to speak to her, but … “ His face twisted in grief. “Her mind is nearly gone. I thought she recognized me, but in the next sentence she called me Michael, and then James – the name of her own son and Mike’s father, who has been dead nearly fourteen years. I asked after Mike, but that only served to agitate her to such an extent that I feared her maid would throw me out straightaway.”

Seemingly too full of restless energy to remain seated, Evans lurched up out of the chair and began an agitated pacing. Harvey had to twist around in the chair to keep track of him, noting that his right hand hovered and twitched and flexed over the handle of one of his pistols, as if he’d grown too used to resolving his problems with bullets.

“Eventually, I gained the trust of Jenny and Norma, and they told me what they knew, which wasn’t a great deal. Mike did return injured, and stayed with Edith through Lee’s surrender and perhaps a month more. They tell me he treated them with utmost politeness and kindness, but kept to himself. Jenny says she sometimes happened upon him huddled in some quiet corner of the house, mumbling nonsense to himself.”

“What sort of nonsense?” asked Harvey, growing intrigued in spite of his earlier resistance.

“They didn’t know. Norma claims he was speaking in tongues, but the Mike I knew never had much patience with the church, particularly after his parents were taken.”

“Could the war have changed him?”

Evans paused in his pacing to give Harvey a long, level stare. “That, sir, is an ignorant question, spoken by one who has obviously never served. The correct question is, how could the war not have changed him, or any man?”

“My apologies, sir,” Harvey said, and meant it. He had only just been employed by Daniel Hardman when the hostilities had broken out, or he might have signed on for the fight. He'd met and spoken to a handful of returning soldiers. Those who had been willing to recount their experiences had described what sounded to him like hell on earth.

Evans grunted in acknowledgement. “The point is that none of the staff understood Mike’s rambling speech, but the act seemed to soothe him.” He frowned again, as if searching for a way to express his thoughts. “We soldiers, we all of us have had to search for our own ways to deal with the memories. I think this was Mike’s. He has an amazing mind. Truly unique. Some nights when we were encamped, waiting for dawn and the next charge, he kept us entertained, reciting entire pages and chapters from novels and plays he’d read, sometimes years earlier.”

Evans halted in front of the window, appearing to struggle with unpleasant memories of his own for several seconds. Then he continued. “Jenny told me that Mike left for Rosswood just days after he visited you, Daniel.”

Harvey raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Michael Ross is the client? Surely you could have started there.”

But Daniel was shaking his head. “No Harvey. Not Michael. Edith Ross. And that is where the difficulty arises. She has evidently taken leave of her senses, and control of her wealth should now by rights pass to the stewardship of her closest male relative.”

“Mike Ross.”

“Yes.”

“So what is the problem?”

Daniel waved a hand toward Evans, indicating that he should continue.

“Jenny told me that letters had arrived from Mike, assuring Edith that all was well, and promising to visit soon. She showed them to me, but I can tell you with complete certainty that they were not from Mike. It wasn’t his handwriting, and the tone of the letters was much too formal. Something wasn’t right. After some reflection on the matter, I grew determined to ride up to Rossmont and reconnoiter. Once there, I found overgrown fields gone to seed, rotting fruit in the orchards, and what must have once been a beautiful home almost completely boarded up, its remaining furniture coated in dust and feasted upon by mice.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Harvey, “your friend went looking for you out west?”

“He did not. The caretakers were still in residence, living in the cottage set aside for them – and the only habitable building on the property. The Sidwells told me an interesting story. Mike did arrive three years ago, and was warmly welcomed by his cousin Logan Sanders, who had been acting as steward for the estate for several years previous. Logan put on a fine welcoming dinner for Mike. It was just the two of them. The next morning, Mike was gone. Sanders claimed he’d become dangerously unbalanced, had both threatened his cousin’s life, and attempted to lure him into unnatural acts. As a result, Sanders was forced to have him committed to the lunatic asylum in Utica.”

The story did not add up. Harvey frowned in astonishment. “He determined all that after one meal together? That must have been an eventful evening.”

Growing excited, Evans turned and pointed a finger at Harvey. “Exactly! He had to have planned this in advance. When Mike corresponded with him beforehand, announcing his impending arrival, Logan must have been in a panic. He was draining Mike’s trust fund, you see, pocketing the profits from the estate and income from all the investments. Daniel has already confirmed this.”

“Did you not try to halt it?” Harvey asked Daniel, becoming incensed on behalf of a man he’d never met.

“Of course I did. I’ve sent repeated letters of enquiry, both to Rosswood, and to Edith Ross. I was still waiting for a response. You now these things take time, Harvey.”

Harvey made a grudging sound of acknowledgement. When dealing with multiple parties, particularly if one or more lived out of town, it could take a devilishly long time to bring things to a satisfactory conclusion. “What else did these caretakers divulge?”

“Once Sanders got rid of Mike, he continued on as before, but then for some reason he decided to leave town. He grabbed everything he could get his hands on and moved on … that was maybe a year ago or more.”

Harvey turned to Daniel, who had been following the retelling with his usual calculating demeanor. “This is a sad tale for those involved, but what are we expected to do about it? How does the firm benefit from any of this?” he asked.

Evans gave a disbelieving laugh. “The firm? What about Mike? He was locked away so Logan could steal everything he had.”

“Do we even know he’s in Utica?”

“Yes. I took the train straight there the following day. They wouldn’t let me see Mike, but they did confirm that he’s a patient there.” He glared back and forth between Harvey and Daniel. “A patient, my arse. He’s a prisoner. Three years!"

"According to the maid," Harvey argued, "the man did suffer some derangement of the mind. Could it be that he belongs precisely where he is?"

Evans glowered at him. "No. Mike does not belong there. He’s no more insane than me, or either of you. There must be some way to obtain his freedom.”

“Well, Harvey?” asked Daniel. “This sounds like just the sort of challenge you enjoy. Has your interest been sufficiently piqued to take the case?”

Harvey gave Daniel an incredulous look. The fact that Daniel asked his opinion was both laughable and suspicious.   “You never answered my question. How does the firm benefit? The young man in question is financially ruined, if his friend here can be believed. Are you suggesting that we take the case pro bono?”

Daniel shook his head, feigning exasperation. “Harvey, this is why you’re still only a junior partner. You don’t pay attention. The boy may be penniless, but his grandmother is still quite wealthy. If we can obtain Michael’s release, he will be in control of all that money which is currently untouchable. I’m sure you can work your charms on him to convince him to stay on as our client.”

Harvey didn’t give a fig about the money, but he would never admit that to Daniel. The story of Mike Ross had struck a long dormant vein of sympathy within him, however, and he found, to his own great surprise, that he wished to work toward his release.

“Fine,” he agreed with a sigh. “Which judge do we currently have in our pocket, Daniel?”

A wide smile lit up Evans’s face, and for the first time since he’d walked into Daniel’s office, Harvey realized what a handsome young man he was. He grabbed Harvey’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm.

“Thank you, Mr. Specter.”

“Call me Harvey.”

“Thank you, Harvey. I’ll remain forever grateful to you if you can accomplish this.” He grinned happily. “If you ever require anyone shot, or beaten soundly, you come to me.”

Harvey smiled back uncertainly. “I generally do my own beating, but I’ll certainly keep you in mind for any future shooting needs.” He was positive now that he’d been correct about that wanted poster.

 

**One month later**

By the time the train from New York City made it to Utica, it was well past supper time, but Harvey Specter ignored the grumbling of his belly and passed up the restaurant in the station in favor of hunting down a carriage for hire. He was of a mind to get this godforsaken errand over with and return to the civilized comforts of home as soon as possible.

The carriage driver gave him an odd look when he told him the destination, but withheld comment. He held the door for Harvey, who settled himself inside the chilly interior, and then they were on their way. Out the window of the carriage, Harvey watched the industrial portion of Utica give way to meadows and lightly forested tracts. He saw the outline of the asylum long before they reached it, as it sat on a slight rise surrounded by sprawling grounds, a duck pond and farmlands.

Despite the weak, late winter sunshine, patches of dirty snow dotted the landscape, and Harvey was glad of his thick wool overcoat and lined leather gloves. He only prayed the weather would hold. Low clouds had begun to mass in the north, but so far the sun had managed to maintain its weak hold.

The carriage turned up a long drive, and Harvey had his first good look at the impressive Greek Revival edifice. It rose four stories high, and boasted massive columns topped in the Doric style. Two newer wings fanned out from each side, all done in the same grimy gray stone.

The lawn and the edges of the pond were occupied with a scattering of idlers who appeared to be engaged in nothing more taxing than walking about and taking in the scenery. He assumed that many of the inmates were allowed out and about to stroll around the grounds and work on the farm, as part of the “moral treatment” currently in vogue. He was surprised to see that most of the people milling about in front of the building were unattended. Hopefully none of them proved dangerous. Perhaps, he mused, the better-behaved lodged here were given this privilege of trust as a reward. Everything he'd read about the young man he was here to see suggested that he would not be in this group.

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the portico, and when the driver opened the door to let Harvey out, he instructed the man to wait for him, pressing a few coins into his palm to ensure that he did so. He walked up the broad steps and into an antechamber that seemed to echo with his footsteps. A clerk manned a desk just inside the door, and the young man immediately leapt to his feet to inquire about Harvey’s business there.

“I have an appointment with Superintendent Brooks, regarding one of the inmates.”

“Mr. Specter, is it? Mr. Brooks expected you hours ago. Was the train delayed?”

“Appallingly so, yes. Is he available now?”

“Follow me.”

The clerk led him down a short hallway, to an office that overlooked the front lawn. Faint sounds filtered in from other parts of the building as they walked, muffled for the most part. Every so often, Harvey imagined he could hear wailing screams, or desperate weeping, and he began to grow more and more uncomfortable with his errand.

He wished – not for the first time -- that he’d been successful in persuading Daniel to make this trip. The old woman was his client, after all. Harvey had not even met her yet, although he’d taken several meetings with Trevor Evans, who remained as convinced of Mike Ross's sanity as Harvey was skeptical. Daniel, however, was tied up in court for at least a week, and had insisted that this errand could not be entrusted to one of the young associates, and especially not to Louis Litt, who had just been made a junior partner. Knowing Louis, he would probably end up being committed alongside the client.

So here Harvey was, being ushered in to meet the man with whom he and Daniel had exchanged a months’ worth of correspondence. Douglas Brooks was a striking man, tall and gaunt, with stark white hair and a clean-shaven face. As they shook hands, he eyed Harvey up and down with a half-sneer that made clear to Harvey that he'd been judged and found wanting.

"Mr. Specter, I'm afraid your appalling tardiness has caused no small amount of upset with your client."

Harvey was left uncharacteristically nonplussed by this aggressive opening. "I beg your pardon? First of all, my lateness was unavoidable, and came about through no fault of my own. Second, Mr. Ross is not my client -- not yet, at any rate. As you must be aware, based on all of the correspondence that has passed between you and my firm, I am here on behalf of the grandmother. And lastly, you'll have to explain how my late arrival could have any effect at all upon the inmate in question."

By the end of Harvey's speech, Superintendent Brooks's lips were pinched with disapproval. He managed, with what appeared to be monumental effort, to manipulate them into something approximating a polite smile. He indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Why don't we both have a seat?"

With a terse nod, Harvey sat down, and Brooks took his seat behind the desk, folding his hands in front of himself.

"Mr. Specter, I trust you are thoroughly acquainted with all of the correspondence you just mentioned?"

"Of course."

"Then you are aware that Michael Ross is considered one of our … _difficult_ inmates. We've been forced to keep him restrained and immobile for much of his waking hours, simply for the sake of our staff and the other inmates. Without the tranquilizer chair, he raves incessantly, driving to distraction anyone unfortunate to be within earshot. Additionally, he spends every night in the crib, which has had mixed results on his behavior.”

Harvey held up a hand, stopping the flow of words. “I beg your pardon. Did you just say he sleeps in a crib?” Harvey stared at the man, appalled and not bothering to hide it.

A smug, condescending smile twisted the other man’s lips. “Why yes. The Utica Crib, so named because it was invented here in this very institution. We’re quite proud of it, and it has had excellent results with many of the inmates. Michael proved more stubborn than most, but even he has grown accustomed to it. His night terrors have all but disappeared.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but Harvey had to ask, “What exactly is this device?”

“It will be easier to show you. I can give you a tour on the way to see Michael. Fair warning, though. He was told to expect a visitor, and grew combative when one failed to appear. I ordered a few hours in the tranquilizer chair to calm him down. You’ll have to wait until he’s done with his therapy before you can see him.”

Harvey had hoped for more cooperation, but he wasn’t above throwing his weight around to complete his task and get out of this oppressive place. He pulled out the sealed and notarized Order of Release, signed by none other than Judge Gerard himself. “This document,” he intoned, “gives me the right to remove Mr. Ross from your custody immediately upon presentation to you.” He held the document out to Superintendent Brooks, and gave it an impatient shake when the man did not take it at once. “Well? Would you like me to have you brought up on charges? Shall I send for the constable?”

Finally, Brooks took the document from him, holding it by the tips of his fingers, and frowning as he unfolded and read it. When he’d finished, he spoke, visibly holding in his anger. “Derangements of the mind are not a thing to be taken lightly, Mr. Specter. I’ll follow the order, but when Michael proves more than you can handle, kindly remember that I did warn you. Please follow me.”

He was up and moving so quickly that Harvey had to scramble to catch up with him. They walked side by side, and as Brooks ushered him up a wide staircase, he continued to lecture Harvey. “The lower floors house our more lucid residents. As I’m certain you noted on your way in, many of the inmates are allowed unsupervised access to the grounds. We also employ them in useful tasks to influence a positive mental state.”

“Meaning you put them to work on the farm.”

Brooks gave him a surprised look. “Among other things. We tried that with Michael his first few months here.”

“Unsuccessfully, I take it?”

“That is a gross understatement. To begin with, he ran off so many times we were forced to keep his legs shackled while he was outdoors. The other inmates found it upsetting to be around him because of the incessant babbling. A few of the more superstitious on my staff claimed demons possessed him.”

“How scientific,” muttered Harvey as they reached the fourth floor.

“I never said I encouraged them, or agreed, but that young man was trouble from beginning.” He paused, a look of distaste on his face. “I was eventually forced to revoke all of his outdoor privileges.”

“And why was that?”

“It’s probably best not to say,” he said in the exact manner of someone wishing to share the most salacious of details.

“I have a professional need to know,” said Harvey drily.

“Of course you do. Well, he struck up an entirely unnatural friendship with one of the attendants at the farm. If you take my meaning.”

“Perhaps you could be persuaded to clarify.”

“I mean, Mr. Specter, that Michael seduced my employee. My wholly male employee.” He leaned in and stage-whispered, “In a sexual manner.”

Harvey kept his features impassive through sheer willpower. “You’re completely certain it wasn’t the other way around?”

Brooks only cocked one eyebrow suggestively and changed the subject. “We house our most difficult patients on the fourth floor, men on this side, and women on the other.” He paused in front of an open door. "This room is currently unoccupied, but it won’t be for long. There seems an unending supply of people in need of our moral therapy. There against the far wall is an example of our famous Utica Crib.”

Harvey stepped up beside him and peered into the small, dim room. His eyes widened in shock. “Good God, that looks like a coffin. A coffin with bars.” He could not imagine being locked up in the wooden device. He would certainly fight to prevent it, which would only serve to confirm his supposed derangement.

Brooks chuckled, an ugly, oily sound. “We criticize what we don’t understand. The crib’s effectiveness has been proven many times over. I’ve had numerous inmates praise the crib, and claim it’s the only thing makes them feel safe at night.”

_Safe from what?_ Harvey nearly asked out loud, but decided to leave it.   “Is Mr. Ross nearby?” he asked instead.

“Just down this hallway. Follow me, please.”

They passed several more rooms nearly identical to the first, except that these were occupied. One man sat on the floor, hugging his knees and rocking mindlessly. Another circled the perimeter, trailing one hand along the wall, gaze fixed on something only he could see. Harvey was forced to pull out his handkerchief and hold it to his nose the block out the odors of piss and shit and stale vomit which permeated the place. His stomach grew tight with dread.

Finally, the reached their destination. Brooks checked inside the room first, blocking Harvey’s view.

“Ah. He’s grown docile again. Good news for you. Come inside and meet your charge.”

For the most part, the device restraining Mike Ross appeared to be a normal, straight-backed wooden chair. The modifications made to it were horrifying, however. Most noticeable was a hollow wooden block large enough to fit over the patient’s entire head. An arched cutout had been made to leave the majority of the face free, but he could see that the young man had been blindfolded, and a gag, not unlike the bit used on a horse, had been placed in his mouth. His arms were strapped to the arms of the chair by means of strips of leather. A wide leather belt wrapped around his chest to keep him entirely immobile.

The room was chilly – unlike the well-heated office they’d just left downstairs – but the patient wore only loose drawers. His pale, thin chest remained bare, and even from across the room, Harvey could clearly see the violent tremors that shook him every few seconds.

Harvey tamped down most of the hot anger that swept through him at the pitiable sight – _this_ was the much vaunted “moral treatment?” He held in his anger because he’d immediately judged his most important task at the moment to be getting Mike Ross away from this place.

“Where are his clothes?” he asked, surprised at how calm he sounded.

He wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if a new stillness gripped the patient at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

“I’ll summon an attendant.” Brooks produced a small whistle and blew two short, piercing blasts. Now the patient began struggling in earnest, thrashing against his bonds, his hands curling up into claws. Brooks chuckled. “That wasn’t he wanted to hear. Michael!” He knocked twice against the wooden block to get his attention. “Calm yourself. Your visitor has arrived at last. If you can manage to behave yourself, I’ll see that you’re dressed and escorted downstairs. Relax and show me you understand.”

“Why don’t you remove the bit and allow him to speak?” Harvey suggested.

“What? And risk being bitten? Thank you, no.”

Meanwhile, Mike had gone completely still, hands limp against the armrests.

“See?” gloated Brooks. “He understands perfectly.”

One of the attendants skidded to a stop at the door, out of breath and carrying a short club. He pulled up short at what must have been the unexpected sight of Brooks and Harvey.

“This one giving you trouble again, sir?”

“Not at the moment. I want you to clean him, get him dressed and bring him downstairs. If he acts up in the least, put him back in the chair and report to me. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Brooks gestured to Harvey. “We’ll wait downstairs. My supper has been delayed long enough. You’re welcome to join me, if you wish.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to do but follow Brooks out of the room and back down the stairs. He turned down the offered meal. He’d lost his appetite, and he couldn’t banish the image of Mike Ross, restrained and in obvious distress, locked away like this while the rest of the world had nearly forgotten his existence.

_Three years._ He suppressed a shudder. For the first time, he was glad he’d made the trip. Someone needed to save the poor young man, and he knew he was up for the task, more than Daniel or Louis would have been.

He only hoped there was something there left to save.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Notes:

 

Some of the old dime novels/dime westerns are a hoot. _Crack Skull Bob_ was real:

[Crack Skull Bob](http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/treasures/images/vc188.1.jpg)

(I came across a site somewhere with online pdf's of actual dime novels, but managed to lose the url and can no longer find it. If you're interested and have the time, you can Google around and will probably stumble across it eventually. It's kind of cool, if you like that sort of thing.)

The Utica Insane Asylum is/was a real place (now renamed). Here's a photo of it:

[Utica Lunatic Asylum](http://img.allw.mn/content/paranormal/2013/03/6_utica-lunatic-asylum.jpg)

The Utica Crib was a real thing:

[Utica Crib](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mlyMBNYw1Sg/U__cverCJCI/AAAAAAAABQI/Kz8Cj0ogXfI/s1600/Utica%2BCrib.jpg)

So was the tranquilizer chair:

[Tranquilizer Chair](http://historiccamdencounty.com/ccnews151_02_big.jpg)

Here is some of the typical menswear of the era:

[Frock Coat](http://www.walternelson.com/dr/sites/default/files/imagepicker/w/walter/frock3.jpg)

[Frock Coat 2](http://www.walternelson.com/dr/sites/default/files/imagepicker/w/walter/vest.jpg)

[Tails](http://www.blacktieguide.com/History/1800s_Victorian/1874_Dec_GofF.JPG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of the kind and encouraging comments and kudos on the previous chapter. And thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Mike felt the hated wooden contraption lifted from around his head. 

"Don't be giving us any trouble, now."

Big Nose Walter spoke.  Even blindfolded, Mike recognized his raspy voice.  Walter did most of the talking, and Chester with a face like a gray squirrel did the hitting.  Chester liked his club and sometimes he used it to --

_I visited Naples in the year 1818. On the 8th of December of that year, my companion and I crossed the Bay, to visit the antiquities which are scattered on the shores of Baiae …_

"There he goes again.  Should've left the bit in."

He let them lift him from the chair, only going limp, not fighting this time.  To demonstrate his cooperation, he shut his mouth to trap the words inside his head, where they massed like clouds and splatted against the inside of his skull, running down the walls like blood that he could smell, but not taste.  He didn't struggle.  Not yet.  He'd see, though.  He'd wait and see what they wanted this time, wait and see if he would stand for it.

The blindfold slid from his eyes and he winced at the light, dim as it was.  Big Nose Walter and Chester Squirrel Face dragged him from the room, and his bare toes scraped along the cold floor, nails clicking like bare branches on a window, or dead soldiers rubbing skeleton hands together, applauding him.  A round of applause.  He smiled, head lolling back on his neck.  The enemy, he'd once believed.  Not anymore.  Just dead now.  Identical bones, North and South.

_"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you not yourself tell me so as we left Paris?"_

An ungentle tap of the club against his shoulder quieted him.  He opened his eyes again.  The metal tub.  He laughed inside.  His eyes laughed.  His mouth didn't laugh. 

_The translucent and shining waters of the calm sea covered fragments of old Roman villas, which were interlaced by sea-weed, and received diamond tints from the chequering of the sun-beams …_

He huddled in the tub, holding his knees.  Pails of ice cold water sluiced over his head.  He didn't scream.  He screamed inside.  He dove into the wet, heavy cloud of words.  He bathed in the words, hiding.

_Though it was winter, the atmosphere seemed more appropriate to early spring; and its genial warmth contributed to inspire those sensations of placid delight, which are the portion of every traveller, as he lingers, loath to quit the tranquil bays and radiant promontories …_

"Fucking Christ.  He’s off to the races now.  Shove something in his mouth."

“Wait.  Brooks will want him calm and biddable.”

Fingers pinched his nose and pulled his head back by his hair.  Bitter liquid slithered down his throat.  He coughed, swallowing the laudanum just before his air was cut off.

A rag.  Taste of dust and mildew.  The freezing water rattled Mike's body and bones so hard the words tried to fly out through his eyes and mouth.  The rag trapped his howl inside his skull.  He thrashed in the tub, splashing frigid water everywhere. 

He knew the consequences.  He could have written this paragraph of the chapter himself.  He had written it.  Over and over, repeating daily.  Chester sometimes showed a spark of imagination, but Big Nose Walter was too predictable.  With a hand on the back of Mike’s neck, he bent him in half and forced his face into water that came up to his waist.  He was tempted to inhale, to fight for so long that Walter forgot himself and held him there until his body went limp and bubbles no longer fizzed to the surface.

He’d tried that before -- had nearly succeeded more than once.  Not today.  Today he had a visitor, his first in … how long?  He’d lost track long ago.  But they’d promised a visitor, taken back the promise, and now it seemed they’d had another change of heart.  Logan must have forgiven him at long last and come to take him home.  He’d be good this time.  Whatever he’d done before … whatever it was, he could finally beg forgiveness.  Was Logan as handsome as he remembered?

The opium curled through his body and mind, slowing his thoughts and loosening his joints.  Walter yanked him roughly by his hair once more, lifting his face from the water, and scowled at him.  Around the rag, Mike stretched his lips into a stiff rictus of a smile, and Walter shook him, tossing water around, and even surprising a curse out of Chester, who raised his club, taking aim.

“Wait!” came Walter’s panicked cry.

An unlikely savior.  Mike’s eyes narrowed.  The day grew stranger.

“Brooks don’t want him touched.  Not today.”  He sneered at Mike.  “Your visitor wouldn’t like that.  Not that it matters.  One look at you and he’ll run out of here quick enough.  Looks much too fancy and proper to put up with the likes of you.”

Whatever tiny hope had lodged in Mike’s chest withered away.  Walter spoke the truth.  Even without a mirror, he knew he looked like a wild man, with his long beard and greasy, matted hair.  He felt like a corpse that should have been decently buried years ago.  Why had they given his this hope?  Was it only another, new form of torture?  Logan would surely be repelled, and that would be the end of hope.  Forever.  He would die here.

_To be buried while alive is, beyond question, the most terrific of these extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of mere mortality. That it has frequently, very frequently, so fallen will scarcely be denied by those who think. The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?_

Another bucket of water splashed over him.  The words scattered.  He moaned into the rag.  Chester got off one rough slap to the back of his head before Walter stopped him.  Mike fell silent, made himself a puppet, allowing them to move him, and dry him with a rough towel, and dress him, and take a pass at his snarled hair before giving up with muttered sounds of disgust.

"That will have to do.  Take out the rag, but mind your fingers."

Mike didn't bite, but growled low in his throat, just to keep them off-balance.  With his mouth clear, he spat on the floor to clear away the taste.  Walter and Chester each took an arm and escorted him from the room, too quickly for his bare feet to keep pace.

_It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which Villefort left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement, every nerve was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his body seemed to suffer distinctly from the … from the … the rest …_

His feet scraped and bumped as they dragged him down the stairs.  _Clickclickclick._ A standing ovation from the corpses.  He bowed, overbalancing and nearly pulling Walter and Chester down with him.  Cursing, they kept hold.  The club prodded his back and slipped down between his legs.  A clear warning.

On the first floor, gaslight flared too bright.  He wanted to shield his eyes with a hand, but settled for squinting.  A figure waited for them, darkly silhouetted by the light.  Was this Logan? 

_"It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk."_

"I beg your pardon?"  The voice did not belong to Logan, but it triggered a long buried memory which remained tantalizingly out of reach.  Mike blinked lazily at the silhouette.

"Don't pay him any mind, sir.  This one spouts nonsense, day and night."

Mike teetered uncertainly when both pairs of hands released him at once.  He stared down at booted feet, their high shine marred by the dust of travel.  He followed the lines of the man up and up, from the wool trousers, to fine overcoat, to disapproving mouth and dark eyes flashing with annoyance.  A clean-shaven face, stiffly pomaded hair.  Broad shoulders.  A beauty.  Not Logan.  A stranger.  But … was he a stranger?  He seemed familiar, and Mike struggled to remember why, fighting a mind going cloudy with opium.

A large hand with smooth palm extended towards Mike.  He stared at the hand, uncomprehending, and darted glances to either side of him, to Chester and Walter, anticipating a trap.

"Mr. Ross, allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Harvey Specter.  I am an attorney, representing your grandmother, Edith Ross."

The hand hung between them.  Mike squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again.  The hand remained.  Mike tucked his own hands in his armpits and took a nervous step back.  The hand retreated.

"Where the devil are his shoes?  Am I expected to take him from here in his bare feet?  There is snow on the ground outside."

He sounded angry.  Mike stepped back again, right into the end of Chester's club.  His face felt tight.  His heart boomed like a battery of cannon inside his chest.  Not Knightley.  No gentle walk in the shrubbery.  He knew this man.  He remembered his voice, and his scent.  He remembered everything.  This was trouble.  No rescue here.  

_Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins; and whatever might be his feelings towards her friend, met her with every appearance of … of composure._

"He's shaking like a leaf.  Bring that chair over here.  And put that club away, damn you."

_More than once did Elizabeth in her ramble within the Park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy.—She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought ..._

Mike sat, hugging his arms to his chest.  Who had summoned this man here, and why?  Was he meant to expose Mike?  To confirm, as if confirmation were necessary, that he belonged here, and must remain forever?  He clamped his eyes shut and reached deep into his well of stories, searching for a blanket knit with words with which to smother himself and block out the world and all of its cruelties.

_"I am he whom you sold and dishonored—I am he whose betrothed you prostituted—I am he upon whom you trampled that you might raise yourself to fortune—I am he whose father you condemned to die of hunger—I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven—_

"Mr. Ross?  Michael?"

He opened his eyes to find that beautiful, austere face inches from his, brown gaze sharp with concern.  Mike's eyes filled with helpless tears.  "Don't do this," he whispered.  "Please don't do this."

Dark brows drew downward.  "You don't wish to leave with me?  Mike?"

Fingers went _snap-snap-snap_ in front of his face.  Mike focused on them, and followed them to an arm and then up to the man's face.  What was it he had he asked?  "Leave?"  He tasted the word, tested it in his mouth.  Was it even possible?  And why would this man -- the man who knew the secret that could sink him like a stone -- have traveled here to offer Mike his freedom?  Confusion made his bones and teeth rattle and ache.

"One of your attendants has gone to find you some shoes and an overcoat, and I have a carriage waiting to take us back into town.  We've missed the train back to New York, but I intend to secure a hotel room for the night.  We'll take the first train back in the morning.  But, Michael -- or it's Mike, isn't it?  That's what Trevor called you."

Something cracked inside of Mike's chest and he struggled to both breathe and get the words out.  "T-Trevor?  You saw him?  He lives?"

"Yes.  I've met with him on several occasions.  He's worried about you.  He wants to see you, but I need you to show me that you're in sufficient command of your faculties to leave, and that you won't cause me any trouble."  He tilted his head to one side, seeming to look all the way inside of Mike.  "Do you want to leave with me?  If you say yes, we can go right now."

One tear escaped Mike's eye, running down his cheek into his beard.  He wanted it, more than anything.  Could he trust this man, though?  He couldn’t think, couldn’t grind the rusty gears in his mind and make sense of what was happening.  Maybe it didn't matter.  If he could only get outside the walls, he could wait for his opportunity, and then --

 _I never hear the word “Escape” Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation –_  

"…'a flying attitude'," the man finished for him softly.  "Dickinson.  Is that a yes, Mike?"

He nodded and nodded, caught in the stranger's gaze, beard growing soggy with tears.  "Yes.  Oh, God, yes."

"Good.  Ah, here are your shoes.  Let's get you properly attired and leave this place, shall we?"

 

******

 

_The prisoner's first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure air—for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La Reserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dantes folded his hands, raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently ..._

_"Whither are you taking me?" asked he._

_… the carriage drove on. The weight of his fallen fortunes seemed suddenly to crush him; he could not foresee the consequences; he could not contemplate the future with the indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a contingency already familiar._

_But hark, what sounds have struck his ear;  Voices of men they seem; And two have entered now his cell;  Can this too be a dream?_

 

_******_

 

Harvey couldn't keep his gaze off of the curious young man with the extraordinary blue eyes and untamed beard.  Every time he thought that his soft, rambling soliloquy had finally reached its conclusion, it started up again with renewed fervor.  He darted from one theme to the next with apparent randomness. 

Inside the confines of the carriage, it became easier to pick out words and phrases, and Harvey recognized a bit of a poem here, and something by Dumas he may have read years ago, but much of it was unfamiliar to him.  Granted, besides law books, the only reading Harvey had time for lately had been Donna’s silly novels.  Mike Ross, it would appear, had been a well-read youth, before war and captivity in the asylum.  Trevor had evidently spoken then truth about his memory.

He watched the side of Mike's face as he babbled.  The boy stared out the window of the carriage as he recited, eyes sad and worried.  Harvey had questions he needed to ask, decisions to make, but for the moment the wall of words rose between them, thick and impenetrable. 

Having witnessed firsthand the deplorable treatment handed out at Utica Asylum, Harvey had no doubts that he'd done the right thing in removing Mike from that place.  What the blazes would he do with him now, though?  He could hardly let him loose into the world in his current state, not without supervision.  His grandmother was in no condition to take care of him.  Trevor Evans had grown nervous and evasive when Harvey mentioned the possibility of taking charge of Mike, leaving the impression that there might be some difficulty involved with staying in New York.  Harvey strongly suspected that Trevor needed to keep a step ahead of the law.

Still, although Harvey had been prepared to believe Trevor's assertion that Mike was perfectly sane, the performance he witnessed now did not inspire confidence.  He could only hope that the influence of three years inside the asylum was the sole cause of the odd behavior, and it would wear off now that Mike was outside its walls.  If not, a guardianship might have to be arranged for him, to oversee what remained of his estate, as well as his grandmother's wealth.  That, he supposed would be Daniel’s decision, and nothing Harvey need worry about.

He'd asked the driver to deliver them to a decent hotel in town, and now they had arrived.  The driver opened the carriage door, but Harvey held up a hand, indicating that he should wait a moment.

"Mr. Ross?  Mike?"  He set a cautious hand on the young man’s shoulder, noting the small flinch his touch caused.  "Can you look at me please?  Thank you.  We're going to get out of the carriage now, and walk into the hotel together.  I'll register us, but I need you to stand quietly by and not disturb the hotel staff or other guests.  That means no speaking.  No reciting.  Can you do that?  Because if you can't manage a semblance of calm, we may not have a place to sleep tonight."

Mike pressed his lips together, going so far as to tuck them partway inside his mouth.  Then he nodded solemnly at Harvey.  His clothing was not the best, but at least it appeared to be clean and in good repair.  Besides, this was Utica, not the Astor House or Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York City.  Presumably, standards were lower in this backwater of a town.

Harvey tightened his hand on the boy's shoulder before sliding out of the carriage and waiting for Mike to follow him.  "Are you hungry?" he asked as they entered the front door of the hotel. 

Mike stopped walking and gave Harvey a look of watery despair, before nodding again.

"It's all right," Harvey hastened to reassure him.  "I'll order dinner sent to our room.  You look like you could use a hot bath, too."  Mike twitched, but said nothing, leaving Harvey to wonder what he’d said to cause this reaction.

As he took care of registering, paying for the night, and obtaining a key, Harvey kept a careful eye on his charge, who stood a few feet away, staring blankly at the elaborately flowered carpet and obediently keeping his mouth shut.

He remained in this state of quietude as Harvey ushered him up the stairs to their room on the second floor.  He noticed for the first time a noticeable limp as Mike move from step to step, and he recalled now that Trevor had mentioned a battle injury.  He would ask Mike about it later, after he grew easier in his mind -- assuming that ever happened.

The decidedly plain room came provisioned with a delicately scrolled pot-bellied stove in on corner, already lit and sending out delicious heat.  Mike took one quick look at the king-sized bed, but made no comment, keeping his gaze primarily upon the carpet. 

With nothing to occupy them as they awaited both dinner and Mike's bath, Harvey got Mike seated in one of the two armchairs.  Neither had luggage.  Harvey had not expected to be gone overnight, but because of the delay on the tracks on the trip to Utica, here they were.  Stuck together. 

He'd had the foresight to tuck a couple of Donna's dime novels into his pocket, and he produced them now, tossing one into Mike's lap.  The young man twitched again, but did not move otherwise for several seconds.  When he did, he picked up the slim book and gazed at it with a look of dawning wonder.  Opening it with the caution of someone anticipating the strike of a snake, he blinked down at the pages, and then murmured, voice shaking with emotion:

 _'Orlando, hear our joyful_ _news:_  
_Revenge and liberty!_  
_Your foes are dead, and we are come_  
_At last to set you free.'_  
  
_So spoke the elder of the two,_  
_And in the captive's eyes_  
_He looked for gleaming ecstasy_  
_But only found surprise._

Frowning, Harvey moved to stand behind him.  The verses sounded too lofty for one of Beadle & Co.’s publications, and not surprisingly, the words Mike had spoken did not appear upon the page.

"What is that, Mike?  I don’t recognize it, but it sounds like poetry.  I'm afraid I don't know much beyond Dickinson and Whitman."

With one finger tracing the edges of the book, Mike gave a strained smile, never raising his eyes.  "Anne Brontë.  'A Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep'."  He lowered his voice, nearly whispering.  "'For they were all my deadly foes, and friends I had not one'."

It felt as if something stabbed, hard and quick, straight through Harvey's chest, at the sound of Mike's stark, sad voice.  Forgetting professional distance, he gave Mike's shoulder a comforting squeeze.  "That’s not true any longer.”

“Is it not?”

“No, it’s not.  You have Trevor in your corner, as well as my law firm.  And … ”  He paused, considering his words and the wisdom of making rash promises.  Mike needed to hear it, though, as much as Harvey needed to keep him calm and behaving in a rational manner.  “If you’ll allow me, I’ll be your friend.”

Mike raised his gaze, and for the first time met Harvey’s eyes squarely, his own pretty blue ones shining with a complex mixture of emotions.  “Your friend?”  His brow furrowed.  “Do you not remember me at all then?”

Harvey’s frown mirrored Mike’s.  Was the question sincerely asked, or merely a symptom of delusion on Mike’s part?  It was difficult to believe the latter with the other man gazing back at him with such forthright lucidity.   “I’m afraid not.  I’m quite certain we have never met before today.”

One side of Mike’s mouth quirked up in a rueful half-smile.  “No, I suppose not.  I beg your pardon, sir.”

“It’s perfectly all right.”  Harvey felt snared in Mike’s odd, searching gaze, and felt relief at the knock on the door which gave him the opportunity to turn away and break the connection.

Mike’s bath had arrived.  Harvey stood aside while two attendants set up the ornate metal tub near the stove and filled it a third of the way with water.  They exited the room, leaving behind soap, towels, and shaving supplies.  Steam rose invitingly from the water. 

Mike made no move to undress.  Instead, he spoke suddenly.  “They bathed me at the … at that place.  Before they brought me down to you.”

“You might have mentioned it sooner.”  If Mike didn’t want the bath, Harvey would be only too happy to indulge in his place.

“It was cold.  Freezing cold.  That’s part of the therapy, you see.  Ice cold baths to shock your senses back into proper alignment.  I haven’t had a hot bath in … “  His anxious gaze sought out Harvey’s.  “Did they tell you how long I was kept in that place?”

Harvey frowned back at him.  “Yes, of course.”

An expectant pause.  “Then could you please tell me?  How long?  How much time have I lost?”

Another stab of that inconvenient pity shot through Harvey.  “Three years.”

Mike’s eyes widened.  “That is all?  You’re quite certain?  It felt more like ten, or twenty.”  He laughed, a harsh, rusty noise.  “My God.  I’m only twenty-four.  Can that be correct?  I feel like an old man.”  He began to shake where he sat, covering his face with his hands, overcome by emotion, while Harvey hovered close by, unsure of what to do. 

To Mike’s credit, he recovered quickly, sitting up straight and sniffing a few times as his hands scrubbed his face.  He stood and moved toward the tub, approaching warily, as if afraid it might disappear in an instant.  Dropping awkwardly to his knees, he tested the water with one finger, and then an entire hand.  Apparently satisfied, he began undressing rapidly, nimble fingers undoing buttons and shedding shoes and shirt and trousers in under a minute, seeming almost unaware that Harvey stood only a few feet from him.  Perhaps modesty had been another luxury denied to him in the last three years.

Not wishing to seem impolite, after one brief, curious perusal of Mike’s naked form (long and elegant, but much too thin and pale), Harvey turned his back and moved to the window, where he stared out at the dark alley behind the hotel while he listened to Mike’s energetic splashing.  From the sounds the boy was making, he found the heated water pleasing.  Most pleasing.

Too pleasing.  Christ, he sounded as if –

“I’m going to check on our dinner,” Harvey blurted out and strode toward the door.  In the hallway, he experienced a moment of uncertainty, wondering if it was safe to leave Mike on his own, even for a few minutes.   He deserved a bit of privacy, he decided.  And Harvey would rather not deal with the guilt induced from lusting after a young man in such a pitiable circumstance.

Slipping out the front door and onto the sidewalk, he lit a thin cigar and strolled partway down the block.  Wagons pulled by sturdy horses or oxen trundle past, churning up the already muddy street.  A chill still hung in the air but not sufficient to produce more snow.  As he stared across at a dry goods store, he sensed someone watching him.  Slowly, striving to appear natural, he pivoted in the direction of the hotel and observed a handsome young man turn abruptly, as if caught staring, before striding away at speed.

Harvey watched him go, frowning.  He’d not recognized the dark haired man.  It was highly unlikely that Harvey possessed any acquaintances in Utica.  Perhaps he bore a resemblance to someone else the stranger knew.  Or perhaps he’d been looking for some entertainment for the evening.  Harvey would not have been opposed, but he had Mike to look after for the foreseeable future.  Speaking of whom, he’d better get back and satisfy himself that the boy hadn’t self-destructed in Harvey’s absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Mike quotes from the following:
> 
> "The Last Man" by Mary Shelley  
> "The Count of Monte Cristo" and "The Man in the Iron Mask" by Alexandre Dumas  
> “The Premature Burial” by Edgar Allen Poe  
> “I never hear the word ‘Escape’” by Emily Dickinson  
> "Emma" and "Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen  
> “Prisoner in a Dungeon Deep” by Anne Brontë
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

Mike did not immediately notice that Harvey had left him alone in the hotel room. The warmth of the tub and the lingering effects of the extra dose of laudanum worked together to relax his limbs, and fill him with the first phantom hints of hope he'd felt in too long a time. He splashed and scrubbed and dunked his head under the steaming water, and never heard the door to the room open and shut behind him. The hotel had provided an entire bar of fine-milled perfumed soap, which smelled like wildflowers, and Mike used it liberally, letting it slither and slide over his wet skin and chase away the stale smells of bodily functions and rotting despair that clung to him from the asylum.

He washed his hair, roughly massaging soap all the way down to his scalp, and then did the same with his beard, working up a thick lather before submerging himself once more to rinse the soap away. When he popped back up, shaking droplets everywhere and wiping water from his eyes, he remembered the shaving supplies that had arrived with the bath. He glanced around the room to locate them, and realized only then that he was alone.

"Harvey?" he said, his earlier anxiety returning. Had he been abandoned already? But, no, the lawyer’s overcoat was still lying on the bed, and those outlandish "books" he'd brought with him remained in plain sight. He must have just stepped out for a moment.

Mike struggled not to panic, and in truth it was not that difficult, relaxed as the warm water and drugs had rendered him. He did want that shave, though, and the silver tray with straight razor, leather strop, and mug with soap and brush, lay several feet away on a low table near the bed. He spotted a thick bath towel folded up on the floor close at hand, and reached for it, standing and shedding rivulets of water.

The stove had sufficiently warmed the room, so that he remained comfortable. He vigorously toweled his hair dry, and then stepped out of the tub and rubbed the towel over the rest of his body. It felt strange to be allowed to perform even such a simple task himself, all the more so because no one stood by monitoring his every move, or glowering at him while tapping a thick club against their palm.

His thoughts meandered lazily, and for the first time in a long while he allowed them to turn to Rosswood. No sooner had he done so, he felt such intense longing to be there now, right this instant, and to be wrapped up in the peace and tranquility he remembered. Harvey had said they must travel to New York first, though. And … Trevor. He'd mentioned something about him. Would Mike finally be allowed to see him again? He would dearly love to see his good friend, but experienced a twinge of dread at the thought. Would Trevor even recognize him? Would he be repulsed by what Mike had become?

His attention was drawn then to a mirror on the wall over the chest of drawers, and he limped closer to get a good look at himself. He choked on a gasp, recoiling from the view, not recognizing the man with enormous blue eyes that stared back at him. He appeared close to skeletal, a skeleton with a shaggy, unkempt beard dripping water onto the carpet. His head swam, and he watched the pathetic creature in the mirror sag and stagger slightly.

"Damnation," he muttered, shuffling backwards until he felt the bed hit the back of his legs. He sat heavily and leaned forward, dropping the towel on the floor and holding his head in his hands. His stomach grumbled loudly, although he didn’t feel in the least bit hungry at the moment. He felt ill, as if any food he swallowed would come straight back up.

“Pull yourself together,” he croaked. Out of long habit, he grasped for words, prose or poetry, he cared not which, to blunt the strong emotion that had welled up inside him.

“The quality of mercy is not strained,” he gasped. “He who steals my purse … There is no greater love … It was the best of times, it was the the … It was the …” The words caught in his throat and he felt like he might suffocate. “Oh, God. Oh, please … ” A deep, wrenching sob ripped through him, and then another. He hunched over into a ball of misery and sobbed brokenly for long minutes, grieving for all that he had lost, not just the past three years, but his family, and the men he’d served with, and every hapless, unfortunate soul whose life had been cut short on the battlefield, regardless if which uniform they wore.

The violent storm that swept through him was mercifully brief. Perhaps he simply did not possess the energy for a more prolonged unraveling. Eventually, he uncurled and flopped onto his back. Shivers had just begun to shake him when the door opened and Harvey entered the room. From the corner of his eye, Mike saw him freeze for the briefest moment before continuing his forward motion.

“Did you have a nice bath?” he asked Mike as he squatted in front of the stove and busied himself rearranging logs which didn’t need to be rearranged. A quick side glance took in Mike’s appearance and skittered away. “You might wish to consider putting on some clothes before our dinner arrives.”

Mike sniffed and wiped at his face, but he heaved himself up and off of the bed to gather his clothes from where he’d dropped them on the floor. “Yes,” he finally remembered to say, answering Harvey’s question. “The bath was wonderful. Thank you for that.” Once he'd finished dressing, he walked over to examine the straight razor. His hands, he noticed with disappointment, were shaking too hard to trust with the sharp instrument against his throat, so he turned his back on it, and found Harvey eyeing him closely.

“No shave?”

The lawyer had already seen Mike at close to his worst, so he felt no shame at lifting his hands to show him the betraying tremors. “I’d prefer not to slit my throat. Not anymore, anyway.” He attempted a laugh.

Harvey tilted his head to one side, as if sizing up both Mike and the situation. “I'd prefer you not, either. I haven’t done this for anyone in a while, but I think I can still manage.” He walked past Mike to the tray of shaving implements, and pointed to the spot on the bed closest to them. "Sit there."

Mike hesitated, torn between want and fear. He studied Harvey's face, trying to decide if he could trust him. Harvey, it seemed, discerned his thoughts.

"It's all right, Mike," he said in a quiet voice, exactly as if he was speaking to a child, or a wild creature who had wandered too close to civilization, and would be spooked at the slightest movement or sound. "You can trust me. I promise." He lifted the razor and strop and began dragging the instrument over the leather, sharpening a blade which already appeared wickedly sharp.

Screwing up his courage, Mike edged closer and sat on the bed where Harvey had indicated, watching him set the blade and strop down to whisk the brush over the soap, producing a small amount of creamy lather. He lifted the brush to Mike's face, but then seemed to think better of it and set the brush back in the mug.

"I think we'd better trim back the weeds before we get started." He picked up a pair of scissors from the tray. "Hold still."

Mike shut his eyes, preferring to just listen to the snick of the scissors, and not witness them working away so close to his face. Harvey's movements were quick and efficient, and he had nearly finished when someone knocked on the door. Mike squinted one eye open to see two members of the hotel staff carrying in folding tables and covered platters of food, setting them between the two armchairs. When the delicious aromas wafted far enough across the room to reach him, Mike’s stomach grumbled, and he was surprised to realize that he’d grown hungry after all.

After tipping the staff, Harvey sent them on their way. "Eat first?" he asked Mike. "Or finish your shave?"

Mike stared at him helplessly, the choice proving too much for him.

Harvey decided for him. "I'll tell you what. If you can sit just as still as you were before, I can have the rest of these whiskers off of you in no time at all. Think you can manage that?"

Mike nodded, even as his gaze darted back and forth between Harvey and the razor.

"Maybe it would be easier if you closed your eyes again."

Mike thought so too. He shut his eyes, and only jumped a little when Harvey touched his face again. First the shaving cream went on, fragrant and smooth. Then he felt Harvey's fingers on his chin lifting and angling his face just so. He heard the soft scrape of the blade, but felt only the barest of pressure. Once it had been established that Harvey did not intend to slit his throat from ear to ear, Mike relaxed and began to enjoy both the physical sensation and the novel sense of being cared for. He doubted there was anything more behind the kind gesture than Harvey wishing to get his client's grandson back to New York alive and breathing -- and not looking like a wild man.

He couldn't help the drift of his thoughts, back to that chance meeting the night before Mike left New York. The stranger Harvey had been then had seemed cold at first, abrupt in his demands, but in the end he'd been kind in the way he'd helped Mike with his clothes, and shown concern for his safety. Mike remembered how intense and shattering the physical encounter had been, but his body at the moment felt too broken down to accommodate any sort of yearning or even conjure up sense memory which might have driven him to crave a repeat of that night.

Harvey obviously did not remember him, and why should he? He'd barely given Mike a glance on that night. Additionally, Mike did not much resemble his former self. He heaved a careful sigh, striving to remain relaxed and give the blade a perfectly stationary target.

A warm towel wiped his face clean, and Harvey encouraged him to open his eyes, which he did, to find a hand mirror being held up inches from his face, and Harvey awaiting his approval.

 _Too thin,_ was his first thought, and _too pale,_ his second. His hair could use a trim. That was him though, in the mirror. Michael James Ross. Of that there could be no mistake. He turned his head from side to side, reacquainting himself with his own face.

"Good?" asked Harvey.

"I don't see any blood. So, yes. Good. Thank you."

A short laugh from Harvey. "I'd say you sustained enough damage in the last few years. I've no wish to add to the tally."

Mike's gaze darted toward the food. The wonderful smells emanating from it were beginning to make him light-headed. He licked his lips, but didn't make a move toward the covered trays.

Instead, Mike continued to observe Harvey as he rinsed the brush, cleaned the razorblade, and arranged everything neatly on the tray once more. He caught Mike looking and smiled crookedly. "I intend to make use of this in the morning." His own gaze flitted to the food, and back to Mike. "Go ahead and start. No need to wait for me. In fact … " Two steps brought him to the tub. He tested the water with one finger. "Still warm enough. It will do. I believe I'll have a quick dip to wash off the grime of travel."

"I … I'm sorry. You should have gone first. I'm … I was ..." _Filthy. Disgusting._ He thought of all the residual grime of the asylum that he'd rinsed away in that tub.

"You did say you'd bathed once already today. Do you really think me that squeamish?" He had his jacket and tie off, and was already pulling his shirt over his head.

Mike turned his gaze away.

"I was serious," said Harvey. "Eat your dinner. I saw all those ribs and vertebrae poking through your skin. You wouldn't want to alarm your grandmother with your underfed appearance, would you? I didn't think so. Eat up."

Moving carefully, sidewise rather like a crab, Mike approached the folding tables. “Which one is mine?” he asked timidly.

“Either. Both, if you can get that much down your gullet.”

This startled a laugh out of Mike. “I’m not going to eat your dinner, sir.” He looked over at Harvey, and felt the inside of his mouth go dry. He’d stripped off his clothes and was just then stepping into the bath. What a fine form he had. Mike remembered that from before, but he seemed to have added more muscle in the intervening years, causing chest and shoulder to appear wider. Mike remembered the lovely prick all too well, even though at the moment it dangled limp and quiescent.

Harvey lowered himself all the way into the tub and let out a satisfied sounding sigh, followed by a rich chuckle. “Staring at me is not going to get that dinner eaten.”

Mike suspected he was blushing at being caught out, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He perched on the edge of one of the armchairs and lifted the cover of the tray closest to him, discovering roast chicken with mushroom gravy, glazed carrots and fluffy biscuits with butter and apple jelly. He went for a biscuit first, slathering it with butter and spooning on an impressive mound of the jelly. With the first careful bite, his eyes rolled up in his head and he moaned around the food.

“Thash fantathtic,” he rhapsodized with his mouth stuffed full. He attacked the chicken after that, not bothering with knife and fork, just tearing off strips of tender, juicy flesh and tucking them into his cheeks. He snuck a look at Harvey while he struggled to chew all of the food in his mouth, and then found it hard to look away again. The other man soaped himself with quick, efficient strokes, and used a washcloth to rinse himself. If he noticed Mike gawking at him, he did not mention it.

For his part, Mike had spotted the chocolate cake hidden behind the other tray of food, and dragged one of the plates closer, tearing into the cake with as little finesse as he’s used on the rest of his dinner.

“Did you forget how to use utensils while you were in the asylum?” asked Harvey, sounding both scandalized and amused.

Mike licked chocolate frosting from his fingers and wiped his lips with a napkin. “Forget? No. Gotten out of the habit? Yes, I suppose so.”

“Perhaps we should get you back in the habit.”

Mike didn’t really see why, but he dutifully picked up a fork and dove back into the cake.

“And Mike?”

He paused, raising an enquiring eyebrow at Harvey.

“Don’t forget to eat your vegetables.”

“I won’t. Forgetting is not something that I do.”

 

******

 

Harvey finished the last of his meal and lay down his utensils, wiping his lips with the napkin while he eyed Mike where he had stretched out on the bed. His eyes were closed, but Harvey didn’t think he was sleeping. The poor lad’s stomach had to be groaning after all of the food he had put away. He’d even consumed the second piece of chocolate cake when Harvey noticed him casting longing stares in its direction, and had insisted that Mike take it. He only hoped that Mike’s long-deprived body didn’t reject the food outright. He’d pointed out the water closet to him, and could do nothing beyond that but hope for the best.

With what promised to be a long night stretching out before them – and only the one bed – Harvey settled in for a time with one of the dime novel’s he’d brought. As he slogged through the purple prose and laughably improbable plot twists, he was amused to see Mike take up the second book and likewise immerse himself. When Harvey couldn’t take another page of the nonsense, he tossed the book onto a table and glanced over at the bed. Mike had an exaggerated frown on his face as he flipped from one page to the next. He must have sensed Harvey looking at him, because he lifted his own frowning gaze.

“Do you actually enjoy these books?” he asked Harvey.

“Some are better than others.”

Mike continued to fix him with a disbelieving stare.

Harvey laughed. “They are appalling, aren’t they? My landlady collects them, and reads them day and night. I think you’ll like her, poor taste in literature notwithstanding.” He’d spoken without thinking, and could have kicked himself when he saw the sudden alarm on Mike’s face.

“I’m to go home with you? What about my grandmother?”

“Ah, did I not mention that she is ailing? You may not wish to stay with her.” Which probably wasn’t true. Why wouldn’t Mike want to spend time with a cherished relative? The truth was, Harvey wasn’t certain the young man could be trusted on his own yet.

With obvious effort, Mike rearranged himself until he sat cross-legged on the bed. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother to her, that’s true. I owe her so much. And …” He stared down at his hands, which tangled and twisted together in his lap, perhaps mirroring his thoughts. “I’m ashamed now to admit that I did notice that something was not right with her, and yet I left her alone just the same.”

Harvey suspected Mike was being harder on himself than the situation warranted. He further sensed that the young man’s sensibilities remained too fragile for Harvey’s usual sort of relentless interrogation. Keeping this in mind, he kept his voice gentle and asked, “Every person I’ve spoken to about the matter has painted you as a perfectly kind and caring grandson. You were fresh from the battle, after all, and perhaps in no frame of mind to catch on to the nuances of her behavior.” He paused, watching complex emotions chase themselves across Mike’s expressive face. “Your grandmother would certainly forgive you for any lapse. And had she wished you to know the seriousness of her condition, wouldn’t she have simply told you straight out?”

Mike shrugged, continuing to appear unhappy. “I never should have left her alone,” he muttered.

“All of our choices have consequences,” Harvey agreed. “This was truer in your case than in most. But I’m guessing you were not aware what your cousin had planned for you?”

Mike looked up then, blue eyes gleaming with emotion. “My cousin? You mean Logan? He was nothing but kind to me when I returned to Rosswood.”

Mike appeared so sincere, and so unwilling to believe the worst of his cousin, that Harvey felt strangely reluctant to give him the truth. He needed to know, though, and the sooner the better. “You do know how you ended up in the asylum, don’t you?”

Uncertainty clouded Mike’s features. “It’s one of the few things in my life I have trouble remembering clearly. They told me I acted … that is to say …” A blush pinkened his cheeks, making him all of a sudden more appealing than he had any right to be in his current condition. Then he seemed to steel himself for what he needed to say. “I’m told I acted in an inappropriate manner with my cousin. I was given a strong dose of … of … laudanum I believe, or perhaps something stronger. The journey to Utica, and the first few days … the first week, in fact … of my time there remain full of shadows and … and things I’d rather not recall. But yes, Logan signed the papers to commit me, and I fully deserved it.” He stopped, and then said, in a much softer voice, “At least, I think I must have.”

Time for some uncomfortable truths, Harvey decided, not liking the look of defeat on Mike’s face. “Yes, Logan Sanders did have you committed, Mike. But my firm has conducted a thorough investigation, which has uncovered some damning information about your cousin. After you were taken away, he spent the next couple of years embezzling everything he could get his hands on from your estate, after which he disappeared from sight. In light of these facts, I can only conclude that he had you committed under false pretenses, precisely for the purpose of thievery.”

But Mike was already shaking his head in denial. “No. He wouldn’t do that. He was family. _Is_ family. I’m sure it’s only a misunderstanding. He would not do that to me.”

Mike was growing excited, and Harvey had no wish to push him any further tonight. It had been an eventful day for the young man already. So he held out his spread hands in apparent defeat and shrugged. “You’re free to believe what you like, Mike. I’m only telling you how it looks to an outsider.” When it looked as if Mike would continue the argument, Harvey shook his head firmly. “Let us leave it there for now. If you like, we can continue this discussion tomorrow, after we’ve both had some sleep. I hope you won’t be uncomfortable sharing a bed with me?”

Mike shook his head, appearing suddenly shy and refusing to look Harvey in the eye. “It will be a … novelty to sleep in a real bed once more.”

Harvey had begun stripping out of his clothes once more. He generally slept in the nude, but tonight he opted to leave on his undershirt and drawers. Mike, as it turned out, lacked modesty even more than Harvey, and when Harvey turned back around from hanging up his jacket and trousers, he caught a flash of Mike’s round, white bottom disappearing under the covers. He nearly groaned out loud, but instead lectured himself silently and sternly. _Professional distance … professional distance …_   

He went to turn down the lights.

“Harvey?” came a soft voice muffled by blankets.

“Hm?”

“Do you think you could leave a light on? Just so … in case I wake up, I’ll be able to see that I’m not still back there.”

Harvey experienced an unpleasant feeling inside his chest, which it took him a few moments to recognize as pity. “Of course,” he murmured, and did as Mike had asked. He climbed under the covers, keeping close to one side of the bed, as Mike did on the other side. He was tired from the events of the day, and expected he would fall easily into sleep. However, he continued to hear small, restless movement from the other side of the bed. Mike, it seemed, remained too wound up to let go and sleep. Despite Harvey’s inconvenient concern for him, he had actually begun to doze when a soft voice brought him fully awake once more.

“Harvey?”

“Yes?” Less patient this time.

“I … I want to tell you something, and I hope you won’t get angry.”

Curious in spite of his tiredness, Harvey rolled over so he could see Mike’s face. He waited expectantly.

“Ah, god, it was easier saying this to your back. But no matter. You seem not to remember our last meeting -- unless you are an excellent actor, and wish to pretend it never happened, in which case I won’t continue.”

He paused as if waiting for Harvey to respond. “Honestly, Mike, I have no idea what you’re talking about. If we have met before, I should know. Further, if you’re going to be a client, I need to know everything about you.”

“Yes. All right. That makes sense.” He didn’t seem anxious to continue, but after another lengthy pause filled with blushes and lip chewing, he took up the explanation. “Before I left for Rosswood that last time – that would be nearly three years ago – I made a final visit to a certain establishment in The Bowery district.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Called _The Sink._ ”

Harvey strove to keep his expression blank, but couldn’t stop the sudden twitch of surprise at Mike’s revelation. “I see. And you recognize me from there? I trust you understand the need for discretion – on both of our parts.”

Mike plucked at the covers, gaze darting back and forth between Harvey’s face and his own hand. “It’s not so much that I recognize you – which I do. You were – I mean, it was dark. Well, not so much dark as rather dim and shadowy, and you were focused on the goal, I suppose one might say. So there is no real reason for you to have made note of my features, or retained them in your mind for all of these intervening years.”

The rambling speech began to grate on Harvey’s nerves. “Kindly come to the point,” he finally snapped.

Mike sighed, and his voice trembled slightly when he continued. “It was me that night. You had a room in the back, and I … that is to say, we …”

Understanding finally dawned. “Oh. I see.” Surprising as the revelation was, he saw no reason to doubt the story. Mike Ross was just the sort of young man that he generally fancied. What an appalling coincidence, though. He thought back to that period in his life, trying but failing to dredge up the details from any of those frantic encounters in the back room at _The Sink_. Everything had been random, and anonymous, and often less than wholly satisfying.

There was that one boy … His gaze went unfocused as he struggled to remember. He had swallowed Harvey’s prick so beautifully and expertly … and – He gaped at Mike across the few inches that separated them. The boy he recalled had been injured. Harvey remembered his awkward movements, and that he had carried a cane. Could this be the same lad he’d searched for each time he’d returned, for months afterwards?

“My god,” he whispered, not realizing at first that he’d spoken out loud. “That was _you_?” His gaze raked Mike’s form under the blankets, up and down, and remained for long moments upon his mouth.

A shy smile lit Mike’s face. “So you do remember me. It was … forgive me, but memories of how fine you made me feel during those stolen minutes … well, let us just say they got me through many unpleasant things during these past years.”

And what was Harvey supposed to say to that? One thing remained clear: they couldn’t let this odd happenstance affect their relationship of attorney to client. He was reluctant to be so blunt with Mike, but it had to be done. “If that is true, then I’m glad. We must forget all of that now. The dangers to both of us, as you are well aware, are much too great. We must exercise the utmost discretion. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Mike smiled sadly, but nodded his assent. “Yes. I understand completely. I would never speak of it to anyone else. I just thought you should know. That’s all.”

“All right. Thank you. Now, do you think you might be able to get some sleep?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try, though. Good night, Harvey.”

“Good night.”

Less than a minute passed before Mike spoke again.

"There's one more thing you should know."

Harvey felt his teeth grind together, and forced himself to relax. "And what might that be?"

"There might be … that is you may need to … "

"Whatever it is you wish to tell me won't be made any easier by your stalling. Out with it, so we can get some sleep."

Mike was quiet for a few moments longer, probably gathering his courage. "It's just, you see, the laudanum, it's been a constant thing for these past three years. They withheld it on occasion as punishment, and it's horrible, the way I feel without it. If I don't receive my daily dose, I may become unpleasant to travel with." He fell silent.

Harvey stared up at the ceiling, but he could feel Mike's anxious gaze on the side of his face. As if his errand hadn't had its share of complications already, he now found himself with a drug addict on his hands. He'd seen the effects of long term use on some of the locals where he'd grown up in Five Points. The drugs would need to be flushed from the boy's body before they caused permanent damage. The process would be grueling -- for both of them, but especially for Mike -- and would have to wait until they were safely back in the city.

"I'll take care of it," he finally said, and heard Mike's soft exhalation of relief. "Now go to sleep. Unless there is anything else you need to confess tonight?"

"There is not."

Mike turned back on his side, away from Harvey, and Harvey turned in the opposite direction. He heard Mike's breathing even out and slow down, apparently falling easily into slumber now that he'd said everything he needed to. For Harvey, a multitude of anxious and uncomfortable thoughts plagued him, and sleep took a good deal longer to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, and short-ish chapter. Life, amirite?

A bloodcurdling, heart-stopping scream ripped through the night, jolting Harvey awake in an instant. Next to him in the bed, Mike sat up, eyes wide and unseeing, a look of abject terror on his face. He opened his mouth, preparing to let loose with another scream.

Without thinking, Harvey clapped a hand over Mike's mouth and bore him back down to the bed, holding him in place with the weight of his body. Mike screamed into Harvey's hand, which muffled the sound, but did not stop it completely.

"Mike," Harvey whispered urgently, "wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Mike thrashed beneath him, but his strength was no match for Harvey's.

Using his free hand, Harvey slapped Mike's cheek lightly. "Damn it, Mike. Wake up.” Undoubtedly, that first scream had been heard throughout the entire building. It wasn’t against the law to have a nightmare, but if any of the staff came to check on them, he’d prefer to spare Mike the embarrassment of explaining himself.

After perhaps a full minute of struggling against one another, Mike's blank gaze sharpened and he appeared to become aware of Harvey on top of him. He went utterly still, except for his chest, which heaved up and down, as if he'd been running full speed. His expression remained terrified, whether due to lingering effects of the nightmare, or from waking to find Harvey lying full-length upon him.

“Don’t be frightened,” Harvey murmured. “And kindly stop looking at me like that. You had a bad dream, and were about to scream the building down.” He lifted most of his weight from Mike, but left his hand over his mouth. His knees straddled Mike’s hips. “I’m going to remove my hand, but you’ll need to keep your voice down. I’d prefer not to draw any further attention to either of us.” It also was not illegal for two men to share a hotel room, but he’d grown accustomed to practicing caution. “Nod if you understand.”

Wide blue eyes blinked slowly up at him, and then Mike nodded once. Harvey slowly raised his hand. Mike remained obediently quiet, so Harvey moved off of him, dropping on his back beside him and letting out a relieved sigh. He eyed Mike sideways. “Are you well?”

He saw Mike swallow with difficulty. “That is a complicated question.”

“Do you want to talk about it? Your nightmare?” He supposed it had something to do with his years in the asylum, and so was surprised by Mike’s answer.

“I was dreaming about my parents. They drowned on the Hudson River when I was eleven. But in my dream they were still alive, and at Petersburg. The battle raged, and through the smoke I saw them waving and calling out to me for help. I tried so hard to get to them. I was wading through piles of the dead and the dying, and blood began to rise, around my ankles, over my knees, to my hips. I saw it cover my parents completely, and I dove into it, trying to swim to them, but the lake of blood was too clogged with corpses, floating past, cold fingers brushing against me and … and …” He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

“That’s enough. I understand. You don’t need to relive it.” He turned onto his side, and tugged the covers back up to cover Mike’s naked form. “Would you like a glass of water? Or something stronger?”

Mike bit his lip. “Half a bottle of laudanum would hit the spot right about now.” He held up one hand to show Harvey how hard it shook.

“I promise I’ll find you some, first thing in the morning. Right now, it’s the middle of the night and –”

A soft tap on the door stopped him mid-sentence.

Harvey grunted and got out of bed. “That will more than likely be the hotel staff, come to see which of us has been murdered.”

He was correct, and spent a minute or two reassuring the rumpled clerk that both he and Mike lived, and were perfectly fine. To spare the man the necessity of checking the rest of the rooms, he added, “I’m afraid I never sleep well in strange surroundings. It was only a nightmare. I apologize for waking you, and for disturbing your other guests.” He was about to press a coin into the man’s palm to hasten his departure, but had a sudden idea. “I generally bring my medicine with me on trips, to keep my sleep free of distressing dreams. You, er, you wouldn’t happen to have any tincture of opium available for your guests, would you?”

The man had been frowning, but now his expression cleared. “As it happens, sir, my dear wife takes a daily dose of _Madame Madelyn’s Patent Medicine_ for her spells. I’ll fetch you a dose immediately.”

He started to move away, but Harvey placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “If I could impose on you further, I’d be obliged if a bottle could be acquired in the morning, to see me on the rest of my travels. If I find it waiting for me when we check out, there will be extra in it for you and whomever you send to fetch it.” To make his point, he handed a silver dollar to the clerk, who nodded his assent and took his leave.

Harvey shut the door and turned around. “One problem solved.”

Mike was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, with the blankets tucked under his armpits. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “You didn’t have to take the blame for waking the whole floor.”

Harvey shrugged. Mike would be getting his dose soon, and now Harvey felt in need of something to soothe his own nerves, so he poured himself a good portion of whiskey and sat in one of the wing chairs, sipping thoughtfully while he gazed across the room at Mike. Neither of them spoke while they awaited the delivery of the promised laudanum. Finally, when the tapping came again at the door, Harvey crossed the room to accept a small glass filled partway with dark, reddish liquid.

“My wife recommends adding half a glass of sherry to the dose. She swears by the stuff, and she’s been an absolute lamb since she began taking it daily.”

Harvey briefly considered informing the man that his wife was most likely addicted to her patent medicine, but ultimately decided that it wasn’t his problem. He had enough problems of his own at the moment, so he watched the clerk leave, and closed the door. “You want yours with sherry?” he asked Mike. “Or whiskey, I guess.”

Mike shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m used to the taste.”

Frowning at the foul, bitter smell emanating from the glass, Harvey handed it to Mike and watched him toss it back in one swift gulp. Taking up his whiskey again, Harvey mirrored his action, and then set both glasses on the dresser. He crawled back into bed and punched his pillow a few times before resting his head and letting out a slow breath, trying to expel any residual tension.

“How’s the _Madam Madelyn’s_ working?” he asked after a bit.

Mike’s eyes had drifted shut. He slit them open with what appeared to be great effort. “Strong stuff. Kindly give my compliments to the chef.” He gave a contented sigh and promptly fell asleep.

It took Harvey a while longer, but eventually his mind let go and exhaustion pulled him under. He woke briefly perhaps an hour later to find that Mike had gravitated toward him, probably seeking warmth, and had his face burrowed against Harvey’s chest, and one arm thrown across his waist. Harvey could have untangled them and rolled away, but he allowed the contact to continue. The kid probably hadn’t been allowed the comfort of human touch (good touch) for three years. He’d slept in a contraption that was part cage, and part coffin, and spent much of his days confined in that appalling chair. Let him cuddle if he needed to. Just for tonight.

Harvey had decided he needed to present Mike to Hardman appearing as sane and rational as possible, because Daniel had a propensity for preying on the vulnerable. He chose not to question how Mike had gotten past his defenses so easily, and instead let Mike continue to cling to him.

Mike began to twitch and to mumble, at first unintelligibly. After a time, Harvey discerned that he’d begun reciting again, a sure sign of his agitation, even in the depths of sleep. Harvey listened closely, to see if he might recognize the source. Mike mumbled the words too lowly, however, and Harvey suspected he might not have known the particular piece of literature in any case. When the clarity of the words devolved further, interspersed with gasping sobs, Harvey tightened his arms around the boy and searched his own mind for anything that might soothe the lad.

His choices were limited. He doubted that Mike would be pacified with dull paragraphs from law textbooks, or the dense legalese of laws and statutes. Finally, he settled on one of the few poems he knew by heart, and murmured it into Mike’s ear while he stroked his hair.

_“Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,_

_You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream)_

_I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,_

_All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,_

_You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,_

_I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,_

_You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands,     in return,_

_I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone,_

_I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,_

_I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”_

 

He finished, feeling some embarrassment at the sentimentality of the verses. They had done their work, however. Mike had quieted in his arms, and lay against him, lax and quiescent, his soft, even breaths warm against Harvey’s chest.

With nothing more to disturb him, Harvey slid easily back into sleep. If his own slumber was improved by contact with the man in his arms, he would never admit it.

 

******

“How did you conjure these so quickly?” Mike turned this way and that, admiring the fit of the dark grey suit that had appeared at their door sometime during the night, complete with fine linen shirt, black silk cravat, undergarments, and shoes that fit properly, and glowed with a perfect shine in the sunlight that filtered through the curtains.

Harvey was already dressed, and seated in one of the wing chairs, holding a flowered porcelain cup filled with steaming black coffee. “I requested them last night when I stepped out of the room for air. This establishment may not have the sophistication of our hotels in Manhattan, but the staff is remarkably efficient.” He reached into his suit pocket and lifted out what Mike recognized as a bottle of laudanum. “This arrived on the breakfast tray.”

Mike despised the relief that swept through him at the sight. He knew there was no way he would last an entire day without at least one dose of the poison, and it was a weakness that he’d grown to loathe. He gave Harvey a genuine smile just the same, grateful to postpone the time when his weakness would be fully exposed.

He gave his cravat one last tug and went to sit next to Harvey. He poured himself a cup of coffee, pleased to see his hand only trembling a little, and added three spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream, stirring carefully. He lifted the cup beneath his nose and let the wonderful smell waft upwards, filling senses, before taking a first sip. His eyes drifted shut with the unspeakable ecstasy of his first cup of coffee in close to three years.

“I didn’t think it was particularly good coffee,” came Harvey’s amused voice.

Mike shot him a lukewarm glare, and had to look away. How could a person appear so perfectly put together at this hour of the morning? He chose to say nothing in response to the man’s attempted jape. How could he understand the privations Mike had suffered?

He set down his cup and filled a plate with warm rolls, stewed apples, cold ham and butter. He slathered butter on two rolls and then had to force himself to eat them slowly, all the while reminding himself that no one waited nearby to snatch his food away, or withhold it as punishment. Striving to be the picture of refinement, he used knife and fork to cut his ham into bite sized pieces, and spooned the sticky, sweet apples into his mouth as if they weren’t the most wonderful things he’d ever eaten, last night’s chocolate cake included.

Halfway through his first plate, he realized that Harvey hadn’t touched any of the food. Mike swallowed what was in his mouth and swiped his napkin across his lips.

“Are you not hungry?”

Harvey’s dark eyes gleamed at him over the rim of his coffee cup. He lowered the cup, revealing a faint smile tugging at his beautiful lips. “You need it more than I.”

“You need something.”

“Eat your fill, and I’ll take whatever is left.”

Tempting as it was to devour the entire contents of the breakfast tray, he wouldn’t repay Harvey’s many kindnesses by allowing him to go hungry. Mike selected one more roll, another portion of apples, and a dab more butter, and nodded at the remainder. “There. I’ll have no more. Please, sir. Eat. If you succumb to hunger on the train and leave me to fend for myself, I fear I’ll suffer a relapse.” He was only partly jesting. The thought of traveling for hours by train, trapped inside an enclosed rectangle, hurtling through space at speeds never intended for humans, already had him perspiring inside of his lovely new clothes.

He understood the necessity of returning to New York, and would suffer through his inconvenient case of nerves, because Harvey would be there with him. Alone, he may not have possessed the courage to take even one step out of the hotel room. He dared another discreet glance at the man, watching him finally fill his own plate with food. He was not smiling at the moment, and appeared as serious and austere as he had been the first time Mike laid eyes on him, in the lobby of the law firm. With his face arranged in such a manner, he seemed less approachable, more the stranger – which, in truth, is what he was, Mike reminded himself.

Could he trust Harvey to look after Mike’s best interests? Wasn’t he being paid to complete this errand? And hadn’t he already made clear that he and his firm had every expectation of retaining Mike as a client once his grandmother’s wealth came under his control? Forgetting decorum, Mike shoveled the rest of his food into his mouth, drank down the dregs of his coffee, and stood abruptly, pacing to the window to gaze down on the street below.

Harvey had also made serious allegations about Logan’s behavior. Could they be true? The inclination to simply take Harvey’s word for it warred with Mike’s lingering affection for Logan. Except for Grammy, he was the only blood relative Mike had. If Harvey could be believed, Grammy might not be with them much longer, which would leave only Logan.

Not for the first time, Mike wished he could recall more clearly the events of that one night back at Rosswood. He remembered his astonishment at Logan’s fine looks, and a brief suspicion that Logan held amorous feelings for him, cousin or not. Accusations regarding Mike’s behavior toward Logan that night are what landed him in Utica Asylum. He must have misinterpreted his cousin’s kindness toward him, and offended him so deeply that he’d had him committed. Or had Logan been concerned for Mike, and sought to get him the help he believed he needed?

Mike’s head began to throb as he considered all of the possibilities. As he observed a stubborn horse down below that refused to move, even as the wagon driver struck it repeatedly with a crop, Mike came to a decision. He wouldn’t give up his trust in Logan, not yet, not before he’d had the opportunity to look him straight in the eye and speak to him face to face.

As far as Harvey was concerned, he would proceed with caution. While they remained together, Mike would behave, as much as he was able, in a respectable manner. He’d play the proper gentleman, rather than the deranged lunatic, and get control of Grammy’s money and property, so that he could see that she was cared for properly for as long as she still had on this earth. Eventually, when his obligations to her were finished, he’d return to Rosswood, and take up the life that had been postponed for the last three years.

He closed his eyes, held on tightly to the window ledge, and shivered as he thought of the effort required to take him through the next hours and days and weeks. He had no choice. He had to persevere, because not doing so meant no reunion with Grammy, and Trevor. It meant financial ruin. Worst of all, it meant a possible return to the asylum. Because he did not doubt for a second that if Harvey Specter, Attorney-at-Law, had managed to removed him from the place, one accusatory word from him could send Mike straight back there for the rest of his days.

So Mike determined to give the man what he wanted, whatever that proved to be.

 

******

 

Harvey allowed Mike another dose of laudanum before they left for the train station. He halved the amount from last night, rationalizing that the least amount possible was best. If Mike’s condition deteriorated during the trip home, he would supplement this with a larger dose. Once safely back in the city, he intended to free Mike from the habit as rapidly as was safe. Luckily Donna knew a thing or two about the drug, and he felt certain that she would be more than happy to assist.

The sun shone outside, and the temperature had risen noticeably since the previous day, so they opted to walk the three blocks to the train station. He could feel Mike’s tension as they made their way downstairs to check out. He noted again Mike’s limp, more pronounced on the stairs. He couldn’t help but wonder if the limb would have healed more naturally had Mike remained a free man. He wished a law existed for which he could bring up charges against the asylum and Superintendent Brooks, but unfortunately they had not broken any laws of which he was aware.

Outside, Mike lifted his face to the sun, rather in the manner of a flower that had existed in darkness for too long, drinking in warmth and light. Checking his pocket watch, Harvey discerned that they had some time before the train was scheduled to depart. On a whim, he grabbed Mike’s arm, frowning at his flinch, and steered him down a side street.

“What?” asked Mike, a look of alarm in his pretty blue eyes.

“Do not be afraid. I just had the sudden desire to see you shorn of some of that excess hair. I’d meant to wait until we were home, but there’s no time like the present.”

“But the train …” Mike objected weakly as Harvey towed him along the sidewalk.

“Does not depart for another hour. We have time.”

Harvey began to regret his impulse when he dragged Mike through the door of the barbershop and saw how his fragile confidence wilted. Mike curled into himself, hanging back by the door as Harvey requested an open chair. The half dozen or so men waiting, or already being serviced, turned their heads to observe the newcomers, and Mike seemed to grow even smaller. His mouth opened and closed, as if preparatory to reciting something.

Confirming that Mike would be taken care of next, Harvey returned to the boy and murmured in his ear. “Breathe in and breathe out. Slowly. Nothing bad is going to happen to you, not with me here.” And then, more quietly, “It seems we will need to break you of more than one habit.”

“Sir?”

“The reciting. It calms you. I can see that. But it may cause concern to those around you, who don’t know you as I am beginning to.”

Mike gaped at him, appearing so shocked and wounded by Harvey’s words that it was a struggle not to burst out laughing.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but you do not know me at all.”

The incipient grin fell from Harvey’s face. “No. I suppose I don’t. I do, however, know human nature enough to know that we attack what we do not understand. Sometimes it behooves each of us to alter our behavior in order to ease our path in this world.” He paused, watching Mike digest his words, and then added, lowering his voice even further, “I’m sure that you and I, especially, both know the wisdom of that, if you take my meaning.”

Mike blushed. “Yes. I take your meaning, sir.” He swallowed loudly. “You needn’t worry. I’ll comport myself properly.”

“No reciting?”

Mike bit his lip, glanced away, and back again. “I promise to do my best on that score, if you agree to another dose of my medicine once we are on the train.”

Harvey’s brows lowered. This felt less like a negotiation than blackmail. He’d just finished lecturing Mike on the necessity of compromise, however. “I’ll agree. One time only. After this, there will be no negotiation or discussion regarding your dosage. Don’t think you can manipulate me. I’ve seen addicts before, and I know all of their tricks. How about we both agree, right now, to try our best to get through this next week with our dignity and integrity intact?”

Mike regarded him for several seconds, face devoid of emotion. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that my dignity has been missing for going on three years. As for my integrity, I’ll agree to do my best, but the drug has a powerful pull. You would be wise to keep that in mind. Fair warning.”

“Fair warning,” Harvey repeated. He might have added something, but Mike’s name was being called, so he led him to the barber’s chair and stood by, watching the final stages of Mike’s transformation from wild-eyed lunatic back to civilized gentlemen. It might be only a superficial transformation, but Harvey meant to see that in time, it went deeper than fine clothes and properly barbered hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The poem Harvey recites is "Passing Stranger," by Walt Whitman. 
> 
> By the way, the story of laudanum, or tincture of opium, and patent medicines is pretty interesting reading (at least to a history nerd like me). The stuff was not regulated in the U.S. until the beginning of the 20th century, and before that could contain any old thing, basically (which is where the term "snake oil" comes from. Bleh.). Folks got addicted to that shit, and didn't even know it. Laudanum was something like 10% opium and 90% alcohol, cheap, readily available, and prescribed for everything from headaches to diarrhea, to menstrual cramps and tuberculosis. They gave it to babies to help them sleep and endure the pain of teething. Woman in the Victorian era took it to stay nice and pale, which was evidently a desirable thing. Weird, wild stuff.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has certainly been sitting dormant for quite some time, hasn't it? Sincere apologies for that. I'm back on the case, though, and this will be moving forward once again. I'm aiming for at least one update per month, perhaps more.

Mike spent the first part of the train ride in a near constant state of alarm.  The enclosed space had him perspiring through his fine new clothes, and the mad hurtle down the track had his nerves jumping unbearably.  He’d ridden trains before, of course, but had grown unused to the experience – and to the world at large – during his time inside the asylum.  Phrases and sentences and paragraphs from his favorite books swirled through his mind, but his kept his lips pressed firmly together to prevent the words from escaping.

Harvey must have noticed his discomfort, because once the train was a half hour out of the Utica station, he wordlessly offered Mike a half dose of laudanum.  Heart swelling with gratitude, Mike swallowed the foul concoction, while at the same time hoping fervently that the time would soon come when he would no longer need the stuff.

Thus relaxed, he dozed off and slept most of the rest of the way.  He missed luncheon, but ten minutes before they pulled into the depot in New York, Harvey thrust a bundle wrapped in a cloth napkin at him.  This turned out to be two rolls, a chicken drumstick, and three sugar cookies.  Mike smiled at Harvey, wondering if he would ever cease feeling this near constant sense of gratitude toward the man.  He chewed and swallowed his belated luncheon, staring out the grimy window at the city he had once known so well, and fretting about the many and seemingly overwhelming challenges that lay before him.

Outside the depot, Harvey obtained a hansom cab for them, an extravagance considering the plentiful streetcar routes, but Mike appreciated the opportunity to separate himself from strangers who he imagined to be scrutinizing him far too closely, and finding him wanting.

It was a relatively short ride to Missus Paulsen's Boarding House (as the discreet sign next to the front door announced the comfortable dwelling to be).  After Harvey paid the driver, he and Mike stood together on the front porch.  Harvey held Mike's elbow, regarding him gravely.

"I happen to know that my landlady has a spare room available.  That is where you'll be staying.  I estimate it will take us at least a week to get you weaned off your medicine, which is also the limit of how long I will likely be able to hold Daniel Hardman at bay."  He fiddled with Mike's cravat and straightened his coat.  "Ready to meet Donna?"

"Who's Donna?"

"The Widow Paulsen."  Harvey tapped the sign next to the door with an elegant finger.  "My landlady.  Yours now, too, at least temporarily, until we get you set to rights."

Harvey opened the door and ushered Mike inside.  "If we're lucky, she'll have our supper ready while you can still keep your food down."

Mike didn't think that would be a problem.  Despite his late luncheon on the train, he was ravenously hungry once more.  He wondered how much all of this was costing Harvey.  "Just so you know, once I have access to my money, I intend to repay you for all of this."

Harvey smiled smugly.  "Don't you worry about that.  The firm will bill you accordingly, all in due time."

Mike was saved the necessity of replying when two women appeared, coming down the staircase near the door.  The first had red hair, done up in a neat chignon.  An embroidered apron covered her plain grey cotton dress.  The second was a black woman dressed in a stylish travelling suit in a rich topaz color, and a matching silk hat with wide velvet ribbons tied in a bow underneath her chin, which added to her already impressive height.  As both woman reached the vestibule, Mike noted with amazement that the second woman topped both himself and Harvey, and yet managed to remain astonishingly beautiful and wholly feminine.

"Harvey," said the redhead, "you're back.  And you brought a friend with you."  She raised one eyebrow.

This, Mike surmised, must be the Widow Paulsen.  He felt himself blushing, and he ducked his head at her all too obvious assumption.  Fresh anxiety gripped him, causing him to take a step toward the door, in the event that immediate flight became necessary.

"This is Mike Ross," Harvey was saying.  "He's a client, not a friend.  Not _that_ sort of friend.  He would like to rent the vacant room on the third floor for a week or more.  Mike, please say hello to Donna Paulsen."

“Just Donna.”

Not being given the option of fading into the background, Mike took a cautious step forward.  Donna offered her hand and he clasped it, making a crisp bow over it.

Donna gave him a warm smile.  "Pretty manners.  I like that.  Pleased to meet you Mr. Ross.  I'm afraid, however, that you'll have to make other accommodations.  I've just let my last room to Miss Pearson."  She indicated her companion.

Mike felt Harvey tense up beside him, but his expression remained nothing but polite. 

Harvey gave a short nod in the woman's direction.   “I can't say I'm not disappointed.  Still, welcome to the house, Miss Pearson."

"Please, call me Jessica."

"I will, if you'll call me Harvey."

"Oh, I know who you are.  Harvey Specter.  Your reputation precedes you."

Mike turned so that he could observe Harvey's reaction, which consisted of raised eyebrows and an inquisitive head tilt.

Harvey laughed.  "I'm almost afraid to ask your meaning."

Jessica gave a soft answering laugh.  "I'm referring to your reputation as one of the sharpest lawyers in New York.  A real up and comer, according to all accounts."

Donna spoke up.  "Jessica was recently admitted to the Bar."

Mike's own surprise was mirrored on Harvey's face.

"A woman lawyer?" said Harvey.  "How extraordinary.  And also … er …"

"A woman of color," finished Jessica smoothly.  "Yes.  Shocking, I know.  I finished at the top of my class at Harvard – not that you'll ever find that publicly acknowledged anywhere."  She spoke without any obvious bitterness, but Mike suspected she harbored a great deal of it nonetheless.  He certainly would have.

"We're living in remarkable times," Harvey replied.  "If it's not acknowledged publicly, at least allow me to give you my private congratulations.  It's quite an achievement all the way around.  I, myself, managed only tenth in my class."

Silence fell for a few moments, broken by Donna.  "And that in itself was a remarkable achievement, I imagine, what with your aversion to serious work and general lackadaisical attitude."

"Careful, Donna.  Don't go giving away my secrets.  A woman with as many secrets in their past as you possess would be well-advised to – "

"All right," she interrupted Harvey, "I take it all back.  You are the hardest working man I know."  She turned her attention to Mike.  "I'm sorry about the room, Mike, but will you at least stay for supper?"

"He's staying," said Harvey.  "As a matter of fact, I need to talk to you about that."  He grabbed her arm and towed her down the hallway and out of sight, leaving Mike alone with Jessica.

Mike gave her an uncertain smile.  "It seems that formal introductions have been neglected, but I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

She extended her gloved hand, and Mike repeated the same bow he'd given Donna.  "I hope you'll call me Jessica?"

"I shall, if you'll call me Mike."

"What is the nature of your case with Harvey?  If you don't mind me asking."

Mike thought for a minute about how much he should reveal.  "Well, I suppose it's about an inheritance, and a possible guardianship.  Evidently, my grandmother is ill, and I'm the next of kin."

"I'm sure Harvey will get everything squared up for you in no time at all."

He nodded.  "I’m sure he will.  What type of law do you practice?"

"Nothing as of yet.  I've spent the last three months seeking employment in Boston, without luck.  I've only just arrived in New York, but I'm hoping the stiff necks are at least marginally less stiff in this city."

"Don't count on it."

She shrugged, unperturbed – at least outwardly.  "No matter.  I've begun to think that my best course of action may be to simply hang out my shingle and build a firm of my own."

He nodded again, somewhat distractedly, as he considered what a brave person she must be to attempt such an undertaking.  He glanced down the hallway, wondering what was taking Harvey so long.  They should probably see about finding Mike a hotel room somewhere, preferably nearby.  He realized that Jessica was watching him closely, and he shifted nervously.

"Can I be of some assistance to you?" he asked her.  "Do you have luggage that needs to be carried upstairs?"

"You're very kind, but no, I'm fine.  It's all taken care of.  I should probably freshen up before supper.  I expect I’ll see you then."

As she gracefully ascended the stairs, Mike let out a long, relieved breath.  Somehow, he'd managed to fool her into believing he was normal – or so he hoped.   Now that he was alone, he was at a loss as to what to do next.  Go find Harvey?  Continue to lurk in the vestibule?

He spread his hands in front of himself, checking for tremors, and finding none yet.  Those would arrive soon enough, he knew from past experience, along with cramping, and chills, and sweats, and crippling nausea.  As he'd confessed to Harvey last night, he had endured the first stages of withdrawals a number of times, whenever his keepers wished to force his compliance with whatever demands were currently being made of him.  The longest he had been denied his medicine had been perhaps two days, although it had seemed much longer at the time.  He shuddered just remembering it.

From the back of the house, he heard voices raised momentarily, and wondered if Harvey and Donna were arguing about him.  He couldn't blame her if she didn't want him to stay here.  Maybe it could be arranged for him to stay with his grandmother after all.  He could be quiet, and stay out of sight and out of the way.  Or maybe he could manage the trip to Rosswood.  How he would love to be back there right now, embraced by its peaceful atmosphere, away from people and their harsh, judging perusal, and their hateful behavior.

How could he handle the withdrawals on his own, though?  Perhaps the best plan would be to obtain a sizable hoard of his medicine and carry it with him, but with no money how would he manage that?  He needed Harvey and his law firm to work on his behalf to restore his fortune – or more accurately, his grandmother’s fortune, since according to Harvey, Logan had succeeded in nearly bankrupting Mike.

He didn’t like to think about that, and let his thoughts drift back to the pleasant prospect of taking up permanent residence at Rosswood.  Perhaps Grammy would consent to go there with him.  That would be most agreeable, and would give him the opportunity to make up for the years he’d been away, as well as assuage some of his guilt for abandoning her in her time of need.

“Mike?”

A firm hand landed on his shoulder, and Mike gave a violent start.  Harvey was standing next to him, giving him an odd, searching look.  How long had Mike been wool-gathering?

“Are we going to a hotel?” Mike asked.

“No, we are not.  You’ll stay with me in my room.  Come with me.”  With a hand on Mike’s back, all but pushing him, he directed him up the stairs to the second floor, and then down a hallway to the back of the house.

Harvey’s room was spacious and airy, with plenty of light coming through a large bay window which looked out over a yard filled with shrubbery and spreading fruit trees.  Mike could imagine how it must look in the spring and summer, filled with birds and flowers and warm, sweet scents.  Right now, the trees were bare of leaves, and the overgrown lawn damp and muddy. 

He remained at the window, staring outside as Harvey moved around behind him.  Mike could hardly have failed to notice that the room contained but one bed, which was not even as large as the one they had shared at the hotel in Utica.  Did Harvey intend for them to share it?

“Give me your coat and have a seat,” said Harvey, and Mike turned to find him indicating a comfortable looking chair in the corner.

Mike removed his overcoat and handed it to Harvey, who hung it in his closet.  Harvey stood before him in his shirtsleeves while Mike settled himself in the chair.

“How are you faring?” Harvey asked him.

Mike shrugged and attempted a smile.  “Not too poorly, all things considered.”

Harvey nodded gravely.  “That will change soon enough, based upon my own experience and what Donna has just told me.”

“Your own experience?  Are you saying you once had this problem yourself?”

Harvey sat on the edge of the bed facing Mike.  “No.  I suppose it would have been more accurate to say my observations.  I grew up in Five Points, and had a passing acquaintance with a fair number of addicts.  Which doesn’t make me qualified to treat you.  Fortunately, Donna has a young woman living here who happens to be an experienced nurse.  And we have Donna.”

Mike frowned.  “Do we really need to involve other people in this?  And a female nurse?”

“I can’t watch you all day.  I’ll be expected to show up to work, and will need to make excuses for why you cannot immediately show your face at the firm.  Don’t worry about Rachel.  Donna tells me she worked at the Union Hospital in Alexandria, caring for patients with everything from typhoid fever, to dysentery – to opium addiction inflicted as a result of the very treatments prescribed for them by the doctors in charge.  From the sound of things, your case should prove mild compared to what she experienced during the war, and for a year or more after it ended.”

Harvey’s words brought back memories of Mike’s own injury, and the weeks he had spent in the appalling conditions of first the field hospital, and then the hospital in Plattsburgh.  He could still call up without effort the foul odors, and the moans and screams of the wounded which surrounded him.  Harvey was right, he realized.  What was a week of unpleasantness compared to what he’d endured, and the worse agony endured by so many others?

He found himself mouthing the opening lines from Shelley’s _Daemon of the World_ , and stopped abruptly with a guilty glance at Harvey, who seemed not to have noticed.

“Any further objections?” asked Harvey.  “Questions?  Worries?  Counterproposals?”

Mike experienced a quick flare of resentment over Harvey’s condescending tone, but tamped it down.  “Not at all.  It sounds as if your plan is thoroughly thought out.”

“You need to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course.”

“Good.  Supper is in half an hour.  You should eat as much as you can, even if it all ends up coming back up later.  Would you like something to read while we wait?”

“Do you have any more of those dime novels?”

“Really?”

“They’re not masterpieces, but the one you gave me last night was most diverting.”

“Donna is going to love you … once you’ve finished sweating and vomiting all over her bed linens.”

Mike took the book Harvey handed him without comment, and opened it to the first page.

 

******

 

By morning, Mike was still holding himself together remarkably well.  He looked somewhat peaky, that was for certain, and his hands trembled when Donna brought him a pot of tea and dry toast, but he put on what Harvey considered a remarkably brave face, smiling and making jokes at his own expense.

After supper, Donna had produced a nightshirt and soft flannel robe for Mike which fit tolerably well.  He climbed into bed and read his dime novel until Harvey turned out the light.  He half-expected Mike to ask for him to leave a light on once more, but he accepted the darkness without comment, and dropped off to sleep right away.

Sometime after midnight, Mike began to thrash and mutter.  He cried out once, although nothing like the ear-splitting shout at the hotel in Utica.  Harvey endured it, and considered taking a blanket and making a spot for himself on the floor.  Looking ahead to the coming week, he made a mental note to ask Donna for a cot, or some extra pillows.

Before Harvey left for the office, Rachel poked her head into the room, and Harvey made the introductions.  She promised to come back and sit with Mike after her own breakfast, and then left to head downstairs.

“I must go,” said Harvey, feeling strangely reluctant to do just that.  “You’re in capable hands here.  I’ve instructed both Rachel and Donna to send for a doctor if your condition progresses in a manner not anticipated.”

“I’ll be fine.  I think.  I hope.  I apologize in advance for anything I say or do which requires an apology.”

“Duly noted.  You’re going to be fine, though.  Say it.  Say, ‘I’m going to be fine.’”

“I’m going to be fine.”

“See there?  Now you’re obligated.”

“If you say so.”  Mike’s tea cup made a melodic click as he set it back in the saucer, which he balanced on his thigh.  “Didn’t you say something about leaving?”

Harvey had a sudden impulse to lean down and kiss Mike’s forehead, which was ridiculous.  He pushed the impulse away, and instead inclined his head slightly.  “Behave yourself.”

******

Daniel didn’t waste any time summoning Harvey once he received word of his arrival.  He had barely had sufficient opportunity to sit down at his desk and sort through his messages before Daniel’s clerk poked his head through the door and informed Harvey that Daniel awaited him in his office.

Harvey suppressed his sigh, striving to hide his annoyance.  Couldn’t this have waited a little?  One did not keep Daniel Hardman waiting, however, if one wished to retain one’s job.

When he arrived at Daniel’s office, he was surprised to find him with another man who was unfamiliar to Harvey.  The stranger was tall, and dark-haired, and handsome in a smug, self-satisfied sort of way.  Daniel did not immediately introduce them.

“Harvey,” he greeted him, “I expected you back yesterday.  Did you experience any difficulties in completing your errand?”

“The difficulty lay with the railroad lines in keeping to a posted schedule.  My arrival in Utica was delayed, causing me to miss the last train back.”

“But you found the young man?”

Harvey gave the stranger an assessing glance, trying to decide how much he should say in front of him.  “I did,” he finally allowed.

“Well?  Where is he?  I should like to settle the matter of his grandmother’s guardianship as soon as possible.”

“We should probably discuss this in private.”  He cut his gaze to the unknown man, and back to Daniel.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Daniel, not sounding sorry at all.  “I forgot to introduce you.  Harvey, this is Logan Sanders.  Logan, may I present Harvey Specter, the attorney who will be assisting me in wresting control of your fortune from Edith Ross and her lunatic grandson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re curious about whether it would have been plausible for Jessica to become a lawyer in New York in 1868, the answer is, well … sort of. The actual first African American woman to become an attorney did so in 1872. Her name was Charlotte Ray. She graduated from Howard Law, not Harvard, and practiced in Washington, D.C. After a few years of fairly successful commercial law work, she was forced to give up her practice due to insufficient amount of clients. Jessica in this story is not based on her, and I only mention Ray to illustrate that it would have been historically almost plausible. Because we don’t want any crazy made up stuff in our fanfiction. Right? RIGHT?? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter, or left kudos. I apologize for not replying personally to all of you. It's been a rough couple of weeks.

It felt to Harvey as if all the air had been sucked out of the room at Daniel's pronouncement.  Standing before him was Logan Sanders, the cur who had condemned Mike to three years of hell, and who had stolen everything that he could carry away with him.

He realized that his hands had clenched into fists, and took several slow, calming breaths, forcing himself to relax.  As satisfying as it might be to practice his pugilistic skills on this viper, it would do nothing to help Mike's case.  He bared his teeth, attempting a smile, and held out his hand.  When Sanders reached over to shake it, Harvey's grip tightened just past the point of civility, and he saw something dark enter the other man's expression, a realization that Harvey could not be as easily manipulated as Daniel had been.

"Mr. Specter," said Sanders, "your reputation precedes you."

"Does it indeed?"  He withdrew his hand, feeling as if it needed a good scrub.  "As does yours."  He favored the man with another toothy smile and turned his attention to Daniel.  "I would still very much like to speak to you in private."

"Come now, Harvey.  You may speak freely in front of Logan.  If what you have to say concerns his cousin, he should hear it."

Harvey bit back a growl and inclined his head.  "As you wish.  In accordance with your instructions, I removed Mr. Ross from the asylum in Utica, and escorted him back to the city.  I would have brought him with me today, but I fear he has unexpectedly taken ill.  The nurse who is attending him assures me he will recover completely, but has ordered bed rest for the rest of the week.  As to his mental capacity, I have observed him closely, and am happy to report that he appears to me entirely rational, and perfectly competent to handle both his own affairs, and those of his grandmother."

With a condescending click of his tongue, Daniel answered him.  "And yet the professionals, who know better than you and I, saw fit to keep him in their care for three years.  Surely you're not claiming to possess more expertise than Superintendent Brooks?"

"Mr. Brooks and his staff are clearly most accomplished at their jobs, so accomplished in fact, that they have succeeded in curing Mr. Ross.  As that is the case, I believe we should thank Mr. Sanders for his offer of assistance, and send him on his way."  Preferably with a firm kick to the back of his threadbare trousers.

Daniels smile was strained and stiff.  "Harvey, do you need a reminder for whom you work?"

"My client?"

"Don't be obtuse.  You work for me.  In my opinion, as someone with a great deal more experience than you, Mr. Sanders has a strong legal claim."

"The claim of Mike Ross is clearly the stronger."

Daniel gave a disdainful sniff.  "It's not his claim that concerns me, but his mind.  Given control of his grandmother's bank accounts, who can say what he'll do with all that money?"

Keeping his gaze on Sanders, Harvey replied, "Who can say what anyone would do with all that money?"  He doubted that Daniel cared, so long as the firm received their sizeable fees.  "Let us at least give the young man the opportunity to prove his sanity.  Allow him to regain his good health, and then judge for yourself."

Looking as if he had swallowed something foul, Daniel nodded once.  "Fine.  I'll examine him myself in a week's time.  He's not dangerous, is he?"

"Yes," interjected Sanders.  "Quite dangerous.  No one knows that better than I.  Why do you think he was put away in the first place?"

Harvey shook his head, angered anew.  "No, Daniel.  Mike Ross is assuredly not dangerous.  I'm certain your mind will be set at ease when you see him for yourself."  Harvey wasn't so sure of that, but he'd long ago learned that whenever going up against Daniel Hardman, confidence was key.

"We shall see.  Logan, it seems as if you'll have to wait another week before your case goes forward."

"If it does at all," muttered Harvey.

Daniel ignored him.  "Do you have a place to stay?"

"I do.  Grandmother has invited me to stay with her."

At this news, it became a struggle for Harvey to hold his tongue.  It had to be an uncomfortable lodging, if the account of Trevor Evans was anything to go by.  Speaking of whom, Harvey wondered when he would put in another appearance.  If he visited Edith Ross again, and encountered Sanders making himself at home … well, perhaps the problem would take care of itself.  Harvey might need to  find time this week to put in a surprise appearance at the old woman's home.

Judging that nothing more was to be gained from continuing the meeting, he made his excuses and devoted the rest of his day to solving problems for his other clients.  Before he left for the day, he sent a brief letter via messenger to an inquiry agent he had used in the past, with instructions to ascertain the whereabouts of Trevor Evans.

******

Harvey left the office at five, earlier than he had for years, and hurried home.  He wasn't sure what he'd expected to find when he arrived – Screaming? Pandemonium? -- but when he walked through the front door, all was quiet and seemingly at peace.  He poked his head into the kitchen to find Donna putting the final touches on the evening meal.

She glanced up and smiled at him.  "You're here.  Are you actually going to grace us with your presence at the table tonight?"

"Perhaps."  He glanced up at the ceiling.  "How are things upstairs?"

"Oh, they've calmed down some. 

"Dare I ask?"

She shrugged.  "Go see for yourself.  Someone needs to spell Rachel and make sure she takes the time to eat."

Growing alarmed at the implications, Harvey arched one eyebrow, pivoted on his heel and made for the staircase at speed, taking the steps up to the second floor two at a time.  The door to his room stood open.  He hurried down the hallway, but skidded to a stop in the doorway as he took in the sight before him.

Mike reclined on the bed, his back supported by pillows so that he was halfway sitting up.  His eyes were bright, with a feverish shine to them.  One hand was clamped around Rachel's wrist, tightly enough to hurt, judging by the pained wince on her face. 

"Please," Mike panted.  "I know you can get me some.  You're a nurse for the love of God.  It's your mission to ease suffering.  So, ease mine, damn you!"

"Mike!"  Harvey strode to the bed and none too gently pried Mike's fingers from Rachel's wrist.  "Kindly get command of yourself."

Rachel stood next to the bed rubbing her wrist and glaring at Harvey.  "Yelling at him will not help.  I had the situation well in hand."

"It looked to me as if he had you in hand."  He gave an annoyed sniff.  "You're welcome, by the way."

Rachel laughed in his face.  "Please believe me when I tell you that I've experienced much worse than what you just witnessed.  I've been pinched, slapped, punched, grabbed by the breast, and in other areas I dare not repeat for fear of sounding appallingly vulgar.  I've had suggestions, and innuendos, and … and … outright propositions of the most insulting sorts.  So kindly do not condescend to me, and do not delude yourself that I am some witless, weak damsel – "

Harvey raised a hand, cutting off her angry rant.  "Peace.  I apologize if I offended you."  He sighed and rubbed a hand wearily over his face.  A glance at Mike showed him eyeing both of them with a surly countenance.  "I've had more than my share of anger and animosity at work today.  I’m to inform you that Donna insists that you join her and the other lodgers for supper.  Why don't you go down, and I'll keep an eye on Mike in the meantime?"

She appeared to have more to add, but pressed her lips together and gave a tight nod.  "That's fine.  I'll bring you up a tray when I'm done, and something for Mike as well, although I doubt he’ll have much of an appetite."

Harvey walked her to the door, where he spoke more quietly to her.  "Thank you for taking this on.  In the short time I've known Mike, he struck me as a gentle sort.  It's his craving for the drug, as I'm sure you're aware, that makes him so unpleasant."  He eyed her closely, trying to decide whether to say more.  "Since you'll be spending more time alone with him this week, I'd like to put your mind at ease in one respect.  You need not be afraid that Mike will, er, abuse you in some of the ways you mentioned.  He is …."  Harvey struggled for a way to make her understand, without saying it outright.

Understanding dawned in her eyes.  "He is much the same as you.  Is that what you're saying?"

Harvey frowned.  "I'll deny it, if you repeat it outside of this room."

"I wouldn't do that.  You'll find I'm quite good at keeping secrets."  She nodded her head in Mike's direction.  "Try to get him to drink some water.  The more the better.  Some believe it helps to flush the poison more quickly from the body.  A word of advice, though."  Her eyes shone with humor now.  "Don't allow him to hold the glass for himself.  Poor Mrs. Paulsen likely cannot afford more broken glassware."

He gave a grunt of acknowledgement.  "Once again, my thanks for your help."

"Oh, thanks aren't necessary.  Donna says you'll be paying my next month's rent."  With that, she turned and left.

Harvey closed the door and faced Mike, who was watching him with a calculating look on his pale, sweaty face.  "I'd ask how you're feeling," said Harvey, "but I think I already know the answer."

"Do you?  I doubt that.  I've had the day to think about it, and I've concluded that I'd prefer to continue with the medicine after all.  I believe you still have some of that bottle left."

Harvey did, but he wasn't going to admit that to Mike.  "I know it's hard, but you can get through this.  In just a matter of days, you'll be free of it, and you’ll be on the upward path."

"But I don't want to get through it.  Maybe I don’t wish to be free."  Mike's expression turned ugly.  "Fuck the upward path.  The downward path suits me fine."

A sharp response sprang to Harvey's lips, but he thought better of his harsh words.  He hung up his coat and took a seat in the chair across the room from Mike.  "You're going to get through this," he repeated.  "You've endured so much already, and you're still here, alive and kicking.  We'll see this through together."

Mike brought his fist down and pounded the mattress in obvious frustration.  "You don't know what this feels like.  It's only going to get worse, and I promise you, it won't be pleasant for anyone."

"Five more days," Harvey countered.  "Surely you can endure for that long."

“I can’t!  I’m weak ….”

“No.  You’re stronger than you think you are.”

Mike licked his lips, appearing to consider Harvey’s words, and then sat up straighter.  "If you'd give me some – a taste only – I'll do whatever you want."

"Mike …"

"I'll suck you.  Or let you fuck me.  We both know you'd like it."

"That is not going to happen, for a number of reasons, this least of which is that I'm your lawyer."

"Christ, your impossible.  Maybe I should find a new lawyer."  Mike plucked at the covers, pouting.

"I'll remind you that you are currently penniless, and without a place to stay if you leave here."

Mike growled in frustration.  "I'll go to my grandmother's."  He climbed down from the bed and stood swaying for a few seconds.  "What have you done with my clothes?"

Harvey cursed internally, but kept his expression neutral.  He hadn't wished to burden Mike with any additional worries until he'd gotten free of the drug, but it seemed the young man was intent upon being utterly unreasonable.  "You can't go to your grandmother's," he said.

"Why not?"  Mike took a step backwards, and sat on the edge of the bed, shivering and crossing his arms over his chest.

"A … complication has arisen."

Mike sniffed and rubbed the sleeve of his nightshirt underneath his nose.  "What are you talking about?"

"Daniel Hardman received an unexpected visitor today.  Someone with whom you are familiar."  He waited a beat.  "Logan Sanders has reappeared, I’m afraid, and he is currently staying with your grandmother."

The delighted smile that filled Mike's face was almost as painful to observe as his earlier petulance.  "See there?  He's not the villain you thought he was.  Did he ask after me?  How does he look?"

"He looks fine, if somewhat down at heel.  Apparently, all the funds he stole from you have nearly gone, and he is looking for a new source of ready cash."

"I wish you wouldn't speak of him in that manner.  I should very much like to see him." He fiddled with the front of his nightshirt.  "Not like this.  If I had just a touch of the medicine, I could dress and go tonight, and you could wash your hands of me.  I should be with family right now."

"Mike, I have something to tell you that you're not going to want to hear.  I swear it's the truth.  Logan approached Daniel to represent him in a case he intends to bring against you."

"Against me?  I've done nothing to him."  He stared down at his hands, eyes unfocused, and whispered, "Nothing lately, that is."   Looking up once more, he caught Harvey's gaze.  "What is the case regarding?"

"He wishes to challenge you for guardianship of your grandmother, and by extension, her money, and eventually her entire estate, when she passes."

"But … on what grounds?  He's not even related to her.  Not really.  She was my father's mother.  His connection to the family lies through my mother’s side."

"True.  But the two of you constitute her only living relatives, close or distant.  And he will challenge you based on competency.  That is to say, he will claim that you possess none, and cannot therefore be entrusted with control of your grandmother's money.”  He watched Mike’s features contort as he took this all in, and finally added gently, “In short, he would have you sent back to the asylum.”

Mike’s gaze leapt to Harvey’s face, terror written clearly on his own face.  He shook his head, mouth working for several seconds before he managed one strangled syllable, repeated over and over.  “No.  No.  No, no, no.”

Harvey’s heart constricted in response to the pitiable scene.  He berated himself for allowing himself feelings for a client, but the feelings persisted nonetheless.  “Please calm yourself,” he ordered.  His harsh command had no discernable effect on the young man before him, who had curled in on himself and begun rocking back and forth, while his mouth moved rapidly, and although no sound came out, Harvey knew he’d fallen back into his coping method of reciting books and poems he’d once read.

With a low groan, which was equal parts aggravation and pity, Harvey moved to sit next to Mike on the bed.  He clasped his shoulder and gave it a shake.  “Mike.”

No response.

“Everything will be all right.  You’ll see.”

Mike rocked faster.  Some of the words he spoke now became audible.  _“He has lost regret and hope, has ceased to mourn his doom …”_

“Mike.”  Harvey grabbed both of Mike’s shoulders and forcibly turned his upper body so that they were face to face.  “Listen to me.  Logan Sanders will never see that money, and he will never – I swear to you on what honor I possess – he will never send you back to that place.  Daniel Hardman may do as he pleases.  Daniel Hardman may go straight to blazes, as far as I’m concerned, alongside Logan Sanders.  I represent you, and I know the law.  Your case is rock solid.”  _As long as you manage to pull yourself together in the next week,_ he thought, but did not say so out loud.

Mike had grown still and quiet, and seemed to be listening intently.  Shivers continued to wrack his body as he gazed down at the floor.  “B-but …”  He paused as another tremor gripped him.  “They’ll see.”  His looked straight at Harvey now, blue eyes shiny and feverish.  “If I go to court, this is what they’ll see.  I – I feel mad.  The world is shadows and confusion.  I must be mad.  They’ll see it, and know me for what I am, and send me back.”

“No.  They won’t.  You're not mad.  It’s the medicine that confuses you, and its lack which makes you weak and unsettled, a temporary condition only.  Once you feel better, you’ll be judged perfectly competent.  I’ll see to it.”

“Maybe I should leave.”  Mike glanced around the room.  “I just need my clothes.”

Harvey began to feel as if he was talking in circles, and it was a struggle to keep a gentle tone.  “And go where?”

Mike’s eyes widened.  He started to rise, but Harvey grabbed hold of both wrists, keeping him on the bed.  “I’ll go west, with Trevor.  They’ll never find me out there.  We’ll live off the land, and have adventures.  I’ll need some of the medicine, to start with, but the clean air and wide spaces will cure me, I’m sure of – ”  A stronger tremor shook him.  His head fell back and he groaned deep in his chest.  “Ah, God.  It hurts.”

“You need to relax,” Harvey urged.  He helped a shivering Mike back beneath the covers, and arranged the pillows under his head.  “Rachel is going to bring us some food shortly.”

“I’m not hungry.”  The fight seemed to have gone out of him for the moment.  He stared at Harvey despondently.  “I won’t go back,” he finally said.

“No, you won’t.”

“I’d sooner die.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”  Harvey had the urge to brush Mike’s bangs back from his damp forehead.  Instead he moved back to his chair, needing to reestablish distance between them.  “Would you like something to read?”

Mike lifted the slim novel which lay next to him on the bed.  _Chip, the Cave-Child._   He gave Harvey a crooked smile.  “Horrifically written, and yet I can’t seem to look away.”

This evidence that Mike’s humor remained marginally intact brought of sigh of relief from Harvey.  He noticed however, that after only a few minutes, the tortured look returned to Mike’s face, if slightly muted, and the book slipped from his fingers.  It promised to be a long night, and a longer week.

 

******

 

Harvey debated whether or not to sleep in the bed with Mike, and finally decided it was the best option, his other choices being either the floor, sitting up in the chair, or taking the sofa downstairs in Donna's parlor.  Someone needed to keep an eye on Mike, to ensure that he didn't act on his threats to leave.  Since Rachel would have her hands full with him during the day, Harvey reasoned that he should be the person to shoulder the responsibility at night.

So, after they'd eaten – or rather after Harvey had eaten, since Mike hadn't managed to force down even a crumb – Harvey worked for a few hours at his small desk near the window, while Mike either read, or pretended to read.  When Harvey crawled into bed, Mike's back was turned.  He may have been asleep, but Harvey suspected he was sunk in misery and wished to be left alone.

Harvey managed a few hours’ sleep before he was awakened by a roughly tossing Mike, who was moaning and sighing and shifting position every few seconds.  “Mike?” he asked.  “What is it?  Are you awake?”

“Everything hurts,” Mike whispered, and then a little louder added, “my very bones hurt.”  He let out a desperate sounding breath of a laugh that pierced Harvey straight to the heart.  He shivered, and shivered again, as if gripped with tiny seizures.  “Please, Harvey.  Please.  I can’t stand it.”  His teeth clicked together as another shiver shook his frame.  “I need my medicine.”

“No.”  Harvey sat up, turned up the lamp, and reached for the water glass on the table next to the bed.  “Drink some water.”

Mike’s face contorted – in rage, or pain, or perhaps both – and he threw off the blankets.  “Water!  I’m dying, and you offer me water?”  He appeared seconds from throwing himself at Harvey, but froze suddenly, arms wrapped around his middle.  “Ah, god.  I’m going to be sick.”

Having been warned by Rachel, Harvey moved quickly to the other side of the bed, grabbed the bucket on the floor and thrust it under Mike’s face just before he vomited noisily into it.  Harvey winced in sympathy.  Little besides bile came up, as Mike had eaten next to nothing that day.  When he finally finished heaving, tears streamed down his cheeks, and he fell back onto his pillows, pale and exhausted.  Harvey covered Mike’s shivering form once more, emptied the bucket, and then dropped into the chair, suspecting that he’d get no more sleep that night.

 

******

 

Harvey was gone, probably to work, and Rachel had returned.  Against Mike’s wishes, she had thrown open the shutters, letting in weak, late winter sunlight.  Although obscured by clouds, the light was still strong enough to hurt Mike’s eyes, and greatly amplify the pounding in his skull. 

“You,” he panted, “you’re a … vile and … evil woman.”

Rachel turned to the next page of _The Quakeress Spy_ and eyed him over the top of the novel.  “Save your breath.  You’ll get no medicine from me.”

He hadn’t expected otherwise, but the pleas had become almost reflexive.  His muscles seized again, reawakening the pain in his entire body.  It felt as if every bit of him, underneath his skin, had been pummeled and left bruised, down to the bones.  He’d communicated as much to Harvey last night, and to Rachel this morning, but no one comprehended the extremity of his distress.  He was in agony, dying a painful death while others sat by and shrugged off his misery.

His muscles relaxed – only for the moment, he knew – and he began forming another entreaty in his mind, searching for the words which would change Rachel’s mind.  Perhaps he could offer her a bribe from his future fortune, soon to be won for him by Harvey.  He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get the words out, a new pain gripped him deep in his gut.  He jack-knifed into a sitting position, and pressed his hands to his lower belly.  “Ah, God.  Please.  I need …”  He shifted his legs over the side of the bed and stood, swaying.

He might have pitched forward onto his face, but Rachel was there in an instant, thrusting a shoulder under his arm to keep him upright.  “You need to stay in bed,” she chided.

“N-no.  I n-need …”  He gestured toward the water closet, face flaming in humiliation.

“Lean on me,” she ordered briskly, and with no apparent embarrassment she helped him to his destination, and pulled his nightshirt out of the way so that he could sit.  “I’ll be outside in the hallway.  Kindly do not fall off and hit your head.”  She hesitated, and added in a kinder voice, “This is to be expected.  You see, the medicine has the effect of slowing your digestive processes, and now your bowels are readjusting.  Don’t worry, it will only last for a day or two more.”

Mike knew she was only trying to reassure him, but this news made him want to burst into tears, which he might have done if his body had not been so weak, and so devoid of moisture.  Thankfully, Rachel made her exit before his bowels gave way completely.

He didn’t fall and hit his head, but part of him wished he would, if only to render him insensible to this new misery.  At least Harvey wasn’t here to witness him in such undignified straits.  He would, though, Mike realized.  If Rachel was correct in her estimate, Harvey would see it soon enough. 

He finally did start to cry as the realization hit him.  How could Harvey ever perceive of him as anything other than a weak addict, possessed of a weak body malfunctioning in every disgusting manner imaginable?  Through his agony, he felt faint surprise that he cared more about Harvey’s opinion than Rachel’s, or anyone else’s.

That made him cry all the harder, although his chest ached from the spasms, and even his tear ducts hurt with the effort of forcing enough water through them.  He had no possibility of a future with Harvey.  Even if society had been accepting of a relationship between them, Harvey himself had already rejected the idea.  Mike could hardly blame him for that.

Still, with all the agonies of his body currently bedeviling him, it was the ache in his heart which troubled him the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Oh, and by the way, all of the titles for the dime novels read by the characters in this story are real. If you want to see for yourself the murky, purple prose that characterizes these novels, there are a fair number of them online here: http://dimenovels.lib.niu.edu/


	8. Chapter 8

Despite his normally robust memory, little of the next few days remained clearly in focus for Mike.Time unfolded in disjointed impressions of pain, alternating chills and fevers, muscles which cramped and spasmed of their own accord, echoes of his own voice screaming for surcease, and all too frequent and humiliating evacuations, even long after he believed that he must be empty at last.

If he slept at all, he dreamt of war, and the asylum, and shadows, and blood, and treachery.When he woke, the shadows remained, along with splintering pain.

The faces in the room changed regularly – from Rachel, to Donna, to Harvey, and back to Rachel, which was Mike's only way of judging how much time had passed.When Harvey put in an appearance, that meant another evening had arrived, and the grey shadows of day were replaced by dark, shifting shadows of night, which seemed to increase the ache in his muscles and bones.He wept dry tears, and vomited bile, and begged for his medicine through cracked and bleeding lips.

More than once, he woke to find Harvey seated next to the bed, leaning over him with a worried look on his handsome face.Sometimes he wiped Mike’s face with a cool cloth, and sometimes he tried to get him to drink a little water.Harvey’s presence calmed him, made the agony almost bearable, more than Rachel or Donna.When he was lucid enough to wonder why, he supposed it was because Harvey had been the one to rescue him from the asylum, causing Mike to equate him with safety.Mike knew that he owed a debt to Harvey which he could never repay.

These brief, clear musings were invariably interrupted by another bout of cramping and burning pain, during which Mike would dwell among the shadows for long hours once more, helpless and sobbing for someone to make it all stop.

And then one morning he woke up, having slept for most of the night, to find Harvey snoring in the armchair across the room.An aching filled him everywhere, as if he'd been pummeled non-stop for a week.The worst of the clawing pain, at least, had receded, and his bowels no longer twisted inside him.The only chill he felt came from the early morning air, easily remedied by dragging his tangled blankets up over his chest.

_ Thank you, _ he whispered inside his mind to whatever god, or spirit or ghosts might care enough to be listening to him.The only response he received was a prolonged, hungry growl from his empty belly.

He watched Harvey sleep for several minutes, regretfully noting the awkward angle of his neck required to accommodate the shape of the armchair.He might have called softly over to him, asking him to join him in the bed, but he was too conscious of the unpleasant odors emanating from both the sheets and his own unwashed body.

Taking a moment to gauge his craving for the medicine, he was wearily relieved to discover that the worst of it seemed to have passed.He couldn't predict what might happen if he found himself in the presence of a bottle of laudanum, or patent medicine, with no one to tell him no, but for now he believed, for the first time in three years, that he could survive a day without it.

A muscle in his thigh contracted suddenly, reminding him that he had not yet achieved full health. He rode out the cramp, and released his breath slowly when the muscle relaxed once more.He realized that he was thirsty, and gazed longingly at the pitcher of water across the room on the table at Harvey’s elbow, next to the water glass that Mike hadn't been allowed to hold on his own for days.

He pushed back the covers, maneuvered himself to the edge of the bed, and sat up.His vision went grey for a moment, and he thought he might faint, but he breathed slowly in and out, and then felt merely weak, not at the point of collapse.It seemed risky to take the four or five steps necessary to reach the water.He did not wish to wake Harvey, though, who had likely had as little – or less – sleep than Mike had in the past week.He set his feet squarely on the floor and pushed himself into a standing position, keeping one hand on the bed for balance.

Once more, his vision faded in and out.He wobbled slightly, but didn’t fall, and so took that as encouragement to take one careful step toward the water, and then one more, even as his sore muscles and joints protested.He was reminded, suddenly, of a scene in one of Donna’s dime westerns, where the hero crawled across the desert, perishing of thirst.The image surprised a low laugh from his parched throat, and he wondered what Harvey would think if he were to open his eyes and discover Mike crawling across the floor of his bedroom on his belly.

“What are you doing?”

Harvey’s voice, unexpected in the dark room, startled Mike so badly that he missed his next step and pitched forward.Strong hands latched onto his shoulders, holding him upright.

“What the blazes are you doing out of bed?”

Harvey sounded angry, as if he suspected Mike of attempted escape.He had considered it often enough in the past week, but lacked the strength to carry out the scheme.He strength was still lacking, and for long seconds he could only stare helplessly back at Harvey. 

“I-I’m thirsty,” he finally managed on a raspy croak.

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

Mike might have pointed out that Harvey had been asleep, but he had depleted his reserves in the few shaky steps he’d taken.Both the bed and the water appeared miles away.Deserts away.Harvey seemed to expect an answer, because he gave Mike a shake, probably not meant to be rough, but which still rattled Mike’s teeth and nearly made him lose his footing.

Harvey steadied him, and his voice softened.“Let’s get you back to bed first.”Supporting Mike with an arm around his back, he helped him back to the bed and under the covers, wedging a pillow behind his back to allow him to sit upright.He poured a glass of water and was back to the bed in seconds, sitting on the edge and holding the glass to Mike’s mouth.

“I can hold my own glass,” protested Mike, not meaning to be churlish, but sounding that way to his own ears.

“Indulge me in this.”Harvey didn’t smile, but wry humor sparked in his dark eyes.

Mike gave a short nod, and then closed his eyes in sheer relief as cool water filled his mouth and trickled down his throat.When he’d had enough, he lifted one hand and closed it around Harvey’s wrist.The glass was removed.He opened his eyes and met Harvey’s considering gaze.

“You look … better,” said Harvey.“No longer at death’s door.How are you feeling?”

“As you say. Better.I believe I’ll live.”He grimaced as memories of his rantings from the last week assailed him.“And as if I’d prefer that to the alternative.”

“That is excellent news.”Harvey continued to study Mike.“Do you think you could you take some food?”

“I’ll see how the water stays down.Perhaps a small bite of breakfast, to start with.”

“Rachel had Donna prepare you some broth.I’m under strict orders to allow you nothing but that for the next day or two.”

Mike nodded tiredly.“I believe I’ll sleep for a few more hours.You look like you could do with some sleep as well.”He patted the spot next to him.“If you can stand to be close to me, I have no objection.”

Harvey gave a low laugh.“I’m not normally squeamish about these sorts of things, but if it’s all the same to you, I believe I’ll wait until you’ve bathed and the bed linens have been changed before I share a bed with you.”

Mike nodded again, already feeling the seductive pull of sleep.With his eyes closed, he listened to the sounds of Harvey resettling himself in the chair.His last thought before Morpheus claimed him and dragged him under, was how odd it was that he should feel such comfort at the nearness of a man with whom he had such a brief acquaintance.

******

“Try just a few more,” urged Rachel, holding a spoonful of lukewarm broth to Mike’s lips.

He’d fought and lost the fight for control of the spoon, being deemed by his nurse to still be too weak.He was hungry, though, so he opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him.The broth was flavorful, if nothing out of the ordinary.To him, it tasted delicious.He thought back with wry humor to his dinner at the hotel in Utica, and how that had seemed the best meal he’d ever eaten.Now, this simple broth far surpassed that meal.Perhaps this was because, for some time during the past week, he had believed he would never be able to – or wish to – eat again.

In turn, that thought led him to ponder what a strange path his life had taken these last several years.Until he enlisted in the army, his days had been quiet and relatively predictable.The sudden death of his parents had divided his youth into two distinct parts, that was true, but each of those parts had been placid and uneventful in its own way.

Then war came, and like so many hundreds of thousands of others, his old life was swept away and he was changed forever.He never had the chance to put the pieces back together.He’d gone from war, to convalescence, to the asylum in dizzying succession.Now, in nearly as dizzying a manner, he’d been snatched from hell, only to have forced upon him another sort of temporary hell.

As he allowed Rachel to continue to feed him, he wondered what lay in store for him now.Would it prove as unpleasant as everything that had gone before?

Rachel set the bowl down on the nightstand and dabbed at Mike’s lips with a linen napkin.

Mike sighed, still sunk in melancholy thoughts.

“Ah, now, it wasn’t that bad, was it?” asked Rachel, concern shining in her warm brown eyes.“Believe me when I tell you it’s for the best.You wouldn’t be able to tolerate solid food right now.”

“I know.It’s not that.”

“Would you like to talk about it, whatever it is?”

He shrugged against his bulwark of pillows.“It’s difficult to put into words.I suppose I’m worried about my future.Between the army and the asylum, I’ve been pretty closely supervised this past five years and more.”

“Is it the idea of freedom that worries you?”

He chewed his thumbnail, considering her question.“Maybe a little.I mean, will I be able to resist the lure of the medicine?There is that worry, but carrying far greater weight is the fear that my freedom will be snatched away again.”Harvey had explained before he took his leave this morning that Mike would have to pass some sort of undefined test to get Daniel Hardman to go along with petitioning to make him guardian of his grandmother’s estate.

“Hm.Well, I can tell you, based upon my own observations, that a certain melancholy is usual after what you’ve just been through.That will pass in time.As for the rest of it, from what I’ve seen of Harvey, he is a good man to have in your corner.All you can do is keep moving forward, one foot in front of the other, and live your life.”

Mike nodded, already weary of the conversation.“Of course.Thank you for your advice.It’s not my intention to be rude, but I believe I’ll sleep some more now.”He closed his eyes, and eventually felt Rachel rise from the bed, and heard her remove the dishes and leave.

******

Mike must have slept the rest of the day away, because when he opened his eyes again, he found Harvey standing by the bed, gazing down at him.He felt immeasurably better, both from having food in his stomach, and from his bath and change of bed linens, exhausting as both procedures had been.

“Hello,” Mike said, stretching and yawning.“Is it supper time already?”

“Soon.First, though, do you feel well enough to receive a visitor?”

Mike frowned, confused.“A visitor?I suppose so.”He searched his mind, but could not immediately name anyone who might wish to see him … except … could it be Logan?When Harvey left the room, presumably to fetch the mysterious person, Mike barely dared hope it could be true.Moments later, his faint hope turned into open-mouthed shock when Trevor walked into the room.

Mike was rendered momentarily speechless, partly at the unexpected arrival of his dear childhood friend, but also at the other’s appearance.He wore coarse trousers tucked into well-worn boots, a ragged coat lined with what looked like sheep’s wool, and a wide-brimmed hat with a low, flat crown, like those worn on the cover illustrations of many of Donna’s dime westerns.A patterned bandana tied around his neck completed the outfit.

“Trevor!” he called out in excitement.

Trevor strode to the bed and gave Mike several hearty slaps on the shoulder.As he did so, his jacket swung open, revealing a low-slung, wide leather belt holding two revolvers.

“Hellfire, Mike, it is damnably good to see you again.”

“Where have you been?” Mike asked, although Trevor’s attire gave him a good idea.He patted the bed next to him.“Sit a while, and tell me everything.”

“I’ll give you a little time alone together,” said Harvey.“Kindly don’t tire him out too much, Trevor.I’ll be back with Mike’s dinner in about half an hour.”He left the room.

Rather than sitting, Trevor paced about the room, as if too filled with energy to remain still.“I searched for you after Petersburg.There were too many wounded, and the regiment moved on too quickly.After Lee’s surrender, a few of the lads lit out for the western trail, and I went with them.I … I hope you’ll forgive me.It was not my attention to abandon you.”

“I don’t hold any of that against you.If I’d been well enough to go with you, I would have.My injury wasn't your fault.”

Trevor finally stopped long enough to give Mike a considering look.“It was my job to look after you.And if I’d been able to see into the future, I never would have left you alone.”

Mike shrugged, not sure what to say to that.

“Anyway,” Trevor continued, “you’re out of that terrible place.Harvey says you’ve been ill.”

Unsure how to explain his weakness, Mike shrugged again.“I’m on the mend now.There’s not much more to tell.I’m willing to wager the same cannot be said about you.I want to hear about all the wild adventures you’ve no doubt had.”

Trevor grinned, giving his hard, tanned face the old look of rakish mischief that Mike remembered so well.“Well, Mike, I can’t honestly say we were always on the right side of the law, but me and the boys, we had some times!”

******

The sound of Mike’s delighted, boyish laughter brought Harvey up short.He shifted his grip on the tray of broth and dry toast, and listened for a moment at the slightly ajar door to his bedroom.

“And if her petticoats hadn’t caught on the windowsill,” Trevor was saying, “she may have gotten me to the altar after all.”

“It would have served you right, although I doubt she deserved anything so horrifying as being married to you.”

“Oh, Mike.Still as naïve as I remember.Tell you what, as soon as you’re feeling better, I’ll take you to this whorehouse across the river where the women – ”

Harvey pushed the door open and entered, interrupting whatever it was Trevor had been about to say.“Dinner time,” he announced briskly.

Trevor turned to eye Harvey, and his gaze fell upon the tray he carried.“Damnation, Mike.If I were you, I’d have a word with the kitchen about the quality of food here.”

Mike laughed uncertainly.“This is an improvement. I haven’t seen solid food for nearly a week.”He met Harvey’s eyes.“Thank you.Are you going to trust me with the spoon this time?”

Trevor looked back and forth between them, as if unsure whether Mike was joking.“Exactly how sick have you been?”

Harvey answered for him.“Sick enough that I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this visit short.”

Mike appeared disappointed, but he didn’t object.Instead, he asked Trevor, “Can you come back tomorrow?”

“Maybe.I need to stay light on my feet.I thought I spotted that Marshall I mentioned earlier, lurking about on Broadway.He’s a persistent cuss.”

“Oh.Well, don’t get caught on my account.Just promise me you won’t skip town without leaving me some way to get in touch with you.”

“I promise.”Trevor patted Mike’s shoulder.“I still have plenty more stories to tell you.I was just getting started.We’ll see each other soon.”He nodded at Harvey, touched a finger to the brim of his hat, and left.

“I’m sorry,” Harvey told Mike, as he arranged the tray for him.“I didn’t intend to run him off so soon.”

Mike shrugged and picked up the spoon from the tray.Harvey noted with satisfaction that his hand didn’t shake this evening.“He’s a dear friend,” said Mike, “but he’s also exhausting to be around for too long.”He ate a spoonful of soup and a bite of toast.“Is that a terrible thing to say about a friend?”

Harvey shook his head and moved to his armchair, where he could watch Mike eat.He had already taken his own meal downstairs.“Rachel tells me you managed your bath without difficulty.”He hid his smile at the blush that rose to Mike’s cheeks.

“That woman could do with a touch more decorum,” muttered Mike, and stuffed another bite of toast into his cheeks.He chewed carefully, and swallowed.“How did you fare today?” he asked Harvey.“Am I expected to put in an appearance soon, to prove my worthiness?”

Harvey had thus far managed to conceal his worry over Daniel’s increasingly insistent demands to evaluate Mike.“We have the weekend, but I’ve been ordered to bring you in with me Monday morning.”

Mike nodded.He continued eating for several minutes more, and then asked, “Do you think I could go see my grandmother tomorrow?”

“That’s not a good idea.”

Mike acted as if he hadn’t heard him.“I may need assistance descending the stairs, but once that obstacle is passed, I believe I can very well manage a carriage ride to her home.”

“Mike, do you remember what I told you?Your cousin Logan has evidently take up residence there.”

“Excellent!I can see them both.”

Harvey counselled himself to be patient.The physical and psychic traumas of the past week appeared to have muddled Mike’s recollections.“I’ll remind you that Sanders has put himself forward as a rival for control of your grandmother’s wealth.”

Mike frowned.“Has he indeed?”

“He has.It seems he was unsatisfied with bankrupting your properties at Rosswood, and would now do the same with your grandmother’s estate.”

“Still, I should like to see him,” was all Mike said, before adopting a thoughtful countenance.He remained quiet as he finished his broth and toast.When he had taken the last bite, he set the tray aside.“Be sure to communicate my thanks to Donna.For such simple fare, the meal was surprisingly good.”

Harvey removed the tray to his desk, thinking that he would carry it downstairs before he retired.Mike had picked up his latest dime novel, “The Two Guards.”Harvey studied him for long minutes while he read, pleased at the improvement in his appearance, even from that morning.The more he got to know him, the more he liked what he saw.His attitude regarding his cousin confounded Harvey, however.Mike’s blind spot where that scoundrel was concerned was a mile wide.

Perhaps putting them together would change Mike’s mind about his cousin’s true nature.At the very least, Mike deserved to see his grandmother, after being kept away these past three years.Harvey would simply have to go along for the visit, to ensure that Sanders did not get up to any of his customary mischief.

“All right, we’ll do it,” he announced abruptly, drawing Mike’s startled gaze from the page he was reading.“Tomorrow I’ll take you to call on your grandmother.Just know that you should avoid any conversations with your cousin regarding the case at hand, since he stands in opposition to you.”

Mike’s sudden smile lit up his whole face.“Thank you, Harvey.It means the world that you won’t seek to deny me this.”He folded down the corner of the page he was on, closed the novel, and set it on the nightstand.“I’m determined to sleep the entire night through in preparation for tomorrow.”He patted the spot next to him.“You should join me.I imagine you’ll sleep better up here than in that chair.”

He was right, Harvey knew.He hesitated just the same, before deciding he was being foolish.Mike was right.The chair was comfortable enough for sitting, but had not been designed to be slept in night after night.“I appreciate it.I’ll be downstairs for a bit, but I’ll join you when I return.”

He picked up the tray and left the room.

******

Donna, Rachel, and Jessica appeared quite comfortable with one another already.As had quickly become their custom after supper, they had gathered in the parlor, Donna to read her latest adventure, Jessica to study one of the law books Harvey recognized, and Rachel to work on a needlepoint project.Harold had also taken his usual spot in the other corner of the sofa occupied by Rachel, dividing his attention between his newspaper and Rachel’s face.

“How is the patient?” asked Jessica.The other two woman glanced up as well, waiting on his reply

“Much better.Thank you for asking.”He hesitated, and then sat in the chair next to Donna.“It seems I’ve agreed to a short excursion tomorrow.”

“His grandmother,” said Rachel, with the air of one who knew everybody’s secrets.At Harvey’s raised eyebrow, she shrugged.“He speaks of her often, and has been worried over her health.The visit should serve to lift his spirits.”

Harvey gave a thoughtful hum.“Perhaps.There is a complication, however.His cousin will likely be there as well.”

Jessica spoke up.“The rival for her estate?The same one who had him committed?”

“The very one.”Harvey eyed Rachel with masked displeasure.He would have a word with her in private concerning the spreading of gossip about her patient.“I can’t seem to get it through Mike’s head that his cousin does not have his best interests at heart.”

“A snake is a snake,” said Jessica, “no matter how many times it sheds its skin.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that unless Mr. Ross is a complete dunderhead, he’ll see his cousin for what he is before too long.”

“Perhaps.”

“As for the legal case the snake thinks he has, I believe I’ve found something that might be of help to you.”

To Harvey’s surprise, she handed the law book to him, pointing to a passage halfway down the page.Harvey read with interest several paragraphs detailing a case in New Hampshire ten years earlier, wherein a person related in only the most tenuous manner contested the estate of a wealthy businessman who had passed away, leaving only a twelve-year old daughter, and a cousin several times removed on his deceased wife's side.The cousin had argued the young daughter incapable of managing his business holdings and accumulated wealth.The judge had ruled that the cousin had no standing, and placed the daughter's inheritance in trust.

"Not bad," said Harvey, handing the book back to Jessica."Unfortunately, the circumstances in Mike's case are different."

"I've found four other cases that add weight to that one."Jessica indicated several books on the table in front of her.

"I'm well aware of the case law."Harvey bridled at the suggestion that he could not research a case as thoroughly as this inexperienced woman.

"Are you so sure of that?"She held Harvey's gaze in obvious challenge.

He sighed and picked up the first book from the table, turning to the page she had marked.Again, it was a case which, while not precisely on point, supported Mike's cause."Obviously, we need to invest in a newer edition," he muttered, preparing to read through everything she had for him.

******

Harvey left the lamp off in the bedroom when he returned two hours later, and undressed in the dark.He'd enjoyed his lively debate with Jessica, finding in her a sharp mind and ferocious debater.By the time they were done talking, he could see how the case could be argued her way, and while victory would not be guaranteed, he gave the strategy a good chance.

Still, Mike's best way forward remained with his meeting with Daniel, and proving to him that he was competent, and sound of mind.If Mike could do that, Logan would always have the weaker claim, added to which, in his current circumstances he didn't have the funds to hire an attorney of the quality required to best Daniel and Harvey.

Clothed in his nightshirt, Harvey stood for a moment, staring down at Mike's shadowy form on the bed, and wondering if Mike would be up to the task required of him Monday morning.Harvey had no doubt that with sufficient passage of time, Mike would be free of the oppression of the asylum, as well as the lingering ill-effects of the drug, and the remarkable young man who Harvey suspected resided inside of him would reemerge.

As he pulled back the covers, he discovered that Mike lay sprawled on his back, limbs akimbo, occupying the center of the bed, and leaving little room for Harvey.He gave Mike's shoulder a gentle shake."Mike," he whispered, "move over."

A sleepy grumble was his only answer.Harvey gave him another, brisker, shoulder shake.This time, Mike batted at his hand and turned on his side, presenting his back to Harvey, and opening up a few more inches of territory.Climbing onto the mattress, Harvey was forced onto his side as well, his front to Mike's back, with only the barest sliver of space between them.

He searched for a place to rest his hand, and settled it on Mike's hip, before leaning in and whispering in his ear, "Don't wake up.Just move over and give me some room."

Maybe Mike heard him, because he did move, but in the wrong direction, rolling back to bring himself in full contact with Harvey, from shoulder to ankles.Still asleep, as far as Harvey could ascertain, Mike gave a contented sounding sigh and pressed his bottom against Harvey's groin – and his stiffening member.

"Ah, other way, sweetheart."Harvey’s hands seemed inclined to pull Mike closer, but he was all too aware of how fragile Mike yet was, in both body and spirit.With minimal force – and great reluctance – he set Mike away from him, and then rolled away, to face in the opposite direction. He was tired enough from the past week that sleep came quickly, even with Mike’s snuffling snores sounding close to his ear.

Harvey woke once or twice during the night, dimly aware that Mike had shifted to plaster himself to his back, with his nose tickling the fine hairs on the back of his neck.In similar circumstances, with almost anybody else in his bed besides Mike, Harvey would have rolled him over, smashed his face to the mattress, lifted both their nightshirts and used him as roughly as he liked.Or he would have ordered his mouth around his prick and lost himself in hot pleasure.

He knew well enough of what that mouth was capable.That night at The Sink three years ago remained a favorite memory, even though he hadn’t thought of it recently, not until Mike reminded him of their first meeting.He’d thought of it plenty in the past week, more than was good for his peace of mind.As much as he would enjoy a repeat of that, he knew it couldn’t happen anytime soon.Perhaps after Mike had fully recovered, and the business of his inheritance was settled, then Harvey would be free to put the suggestion to Mike, and see whether he was agreeable to … 

To what, he wondered as he shifted restlessly in the early morning hours.Carnal relations?Or – here, he sneered inwardly at himself – something resembling courtship?Such an absurd notion, as if either of them could afford the risk of anything more than an occasional furtive fumbling in the dark.That, he could buy on almost any street corner.Maybe Mike didn’t want that anymore.

Harvey knew plenty of men with desires such as his own, who nevertheless sought out marriage and fatherhood and seemed perfectly content, at least as far as the world knew.Once Mike was comfortably wealthy again, perhaps he would choose that same path.Not Harvey.Even if by necessity he had to hide who he was, he found beyond distasteful the thought of pretending to be something quite the opposite to his true nature.

Tonight, the warm body next to him in the bed would not keep a respectable distance.Finally, in the interests of getting a proper night’s sleep before they visited Mike’s grandmother and cousin tomorrow, Harvey turned to Mike, threw a leg over both of Mike’s, wrapped both arms around him, and held him close to his chest.This had the desired effect of quieting his bedmate and ceasing his restless movement, and they both slept peacefully for what remained of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! The plan now is to get a new chapter up at least once a month, if not sooner.


	9. Chapter 9

Mike woke early, moving restlessly, and waking Harvey, who had to ask him to go back to sleep four times, before finally ordering that he either lie down or sit quietly in the wing chair and allow him to sleep until a civilized hour.

When Harvey arose perhaps two hours later, he found Mike dressed, and folded up on the chair with his nose deep in one of his ubiquitous novels.

“Do you think you can manage breakfast downstairs?” asked Harvey as he left the bed and prepared to shave.

“I believe so,” said Mike, sounding subdued.“I trust if I collapse into my oatmeal, you will keep me from suffocation?”

"I shall probably defer to the nurse, if present."He eyed Mike in the mirror."You should have slept longer.You certainly look as if you need it."

"I couldn't."

"Too excited for your visit?"Harvey scraped his whiskers with the straight blade, expertly moving around the contours of chin, cheeks, upper lip, and neck, and then toweled off the excess lather.

"Too nervous about how I'll find Grammy, or how she'll find me."

Harvey felt an unsettling twinge of sympathy, but replied smoothly, "I'm sure the visit will go well enough.No use brooding about it, in any case."

He could feel Mike's eyes on him as he moved about the room getting dressed.By the time he had finished, Mike had discarded the novel and stood staring moodily out the window, leaning against the sill for support.The suit Harvey had obtained for him in Utica looked as presentable as ever, but hung more loosely from Mike's shoulders.That would be remedied soon enough, Harvey supposed.Between himself, Donna, and Rachel, they would have Mike back to a healthier weight before long.

"I bought you a present," said Harvey, once he was dressed and ready to leave.He retrieved from the armoire an ash walking cane with a finely worked damascene handle, and handed it to Mike, who took it from him with an air of cautious surprise."Rachel mentioned that with the drug out of your system, you might experience renewed pain and weakness in your injured leg.This is merely a precaution against that eventuality."

Mike stared at the cane, turning it over and over in his hands."Thank you," he finally said."This is very fine.Your thoughtfulness – "Mike paused to clear his throat."Astounds me."

To Harvey's utter surprise, Mike appeared on the verge of tears."Come, come," he ordered briskly, "let's make our way down to breakfast before it gets cold."

******

Much ado was made by the ladies of the house of Mike's appearance, less so by Harold, although being the pleasant fellow Harvey knew him to be, he welcomed Mike to the table with gentle good humor.Introductions were made all around, and they had just begun to pass the biscuits and porridge and stewed pears, when a loud knock sounded at the front door.

Frowning, Donna, got up to answer, and returned moments later with Trevor Evans in tow, the latter looking as scruffy and disreputable as ever."Mike," said Donna, "it seems you have a visitor.And a very _early_ visitor indeed.I've invited him to join us for breakfast, on the condition that you vouch for him."

"Of course I will."Mike made the introductions, a chair was added to the table, and breakfast continued.

"What brings you here this morning?" asked Harvey.

"Mike mentioned yesterday a desire to visit his grandmother.I'm here to offer my assistance.That is, if you're feeling well enough, Mike."

Mike swallowed the bite of pears he'd taken, and darted a look at Harvey."Ah, in fact, Harvey has already offered the same.So …"For some reason which Harvey could not fathom, Mike's cheeks had taken on a deep red hue.

Harvey watched Trevor's eyes narrow as he considered Mike's reaction."Then Harvey needn't be bothered."

Mike appeared ready to meekly agree, so Harvey spoke up."As the attorney in the case, I need to be present, to assess the situation."

"How mysteriously vague," said Trevor, with a half-smile."Still, if it's all the same to you, I believe I'll tag along."He arched an eyebrow."Any objections?"

"Of course not."Out of the corner of his eye, Harvey saw Mike visibly relax.Although Harvey had been surprised at Trevor's appearance this morning, he was pleased enough to have him accompany them, on the off chance that Logan Sanders should cause them any difficulty.Strength in numbers was never a bad plan.Plus, the two pistols Trevor habitually carried added an extra bite to any possible reminders Logan might require as to his place in all of this.

Breakfast proceeded amicably enough, featuring the amusing spectacle of Trevor flirting with – and being roundly rebuffed by – Rachel, and Donna and Jessica.Harvey could almost admire his breezy confidence, if he didn't also worry about the influence such a careless attitude could have on Mike.He determined that he would keep a close watch on Trevor, and if an opportunity presented itself, suggest that he remove himself from New York, and from Mike's life.

******

Mike felt weary all the way down to his aching bones, and found it an effort to even stand and walk.He hid his deficiencies as well as he could, as he, Harvey and Trevor made their way out of the boarding house to the hansom cab waiting at the curb.He leaned heavily on the beautiful cane Harvey had given him, still stunned to receive something so lovely from the man to whom he already owed so much.

A hansom cab was normally a one or two person conveyance, but the three of them managed to squeeze in together, a feat made possible largely due to Mike's narrow frame, now even narrower after his recent illness.With Harvey pressed against him on one side, and Trevor on the other, he felt propped up, oddly safe, and warm enough to withstand the chill inside the carriage.

Following a mostly silent twenty-minute ride, they arrived at his grandmother's townhouse.Mike had fallen into something of a stuporous state, due to the lack of sleep upon which Harvey had remarked earlier.His eyes widened, and he sat up straighter, as he took in the street where his grandmother lived.He scarcely recognized it. The wooden sidewalk had rotted through in several places, the trees and shrubberies were untrimmed, and the fences and lawns in disrepair.He clearly remembered the care with which these stylish homes had once been maintained, and the contrast was startling.Had he only been gone three years?

"This is …" he murmured without at once realizing he had spoken out loud, " … a dream within a dream."

"Mike?"

Harvey was staring at him with concern in his eyes.

"No.No, I'm fine."He supposed Harvey thought he'd fallen back into his habit of reciting, but a touch of Poe had seemed appropriate."Things seem to have gotten worse than I'd realized."

Weariness weighted him to the seat.As Trevor exited the cab, Mike marshalled his strength to follow him.He felt a supportive hand under his elbow, and shot Harvey a grateful look.In the end, it required both Trevor and Harvey's assistance to get him down to the sidewalk, but once there, he shook them off and walked under his own power (assisted by his handsome cane) to the front door.

On the way, Harvey explained to him that newer, more fashionable addresses had recently attracted the attentions of the wealthier inhabitants of the city, who had left behind entire neighborhoods of townhouses and large, stately dwellings to be either torn down, or partitioned into apartment dwellings of varying quality."On some streets, tenements of scandalously poor constructions have gone up, and more are planned, in order to accommodate the growing flood of immigrants."

"Immigrants who need somewhere to live," Trevor interjected tartly."What's the matter, Specter?Does it offend you to share your fine city with the poor?"

Harvey laughed at that."Who do you think you're talking to?I grew up in Five Points.I have no objection to new blood in the city, be it Irish or Italian or what have you.I'm simply no fan of unscrupulous businessmen swindling the newcomers with such hazardous accommodations."

Trevor gave a noncommittal grunt, but they were all saved from further discussion on the matter as they had reached the entrance to the house.Harvey rapped briskly on the door, and they waited perhaps a full minute before a young woman dressed in a ragged-looking maid's uniform answered the summons.It took Mike a few seconds to recognize her as Jenny.The shy teenager he remembered had blossomed into a lovely young woman.

A lovely young woman who was flustered and blushing at the sight of Trevor, who spoke her name as if they were old acquaintances, removed his hat and held it over his heart as he gave her a dashing bow.Given more time, he might have reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, but Harvey intervened.

"Madam," he said, tipping his own hat in her direction, "my name is Harvey Specter, and I am the attorney for this gentleman, who you might recognize as Michael Ross."

This tore her attention from Trevor.She gaped at Mike for several seconds, and then squealed and cried out, "Mike!I mean, Mr. Michael.Mr. Ross.Oh, devil take the niceties."

She all but leapt at him and wrapped her arms around him, sending him off-balance and stumbling back against Harvey, who grasped his shoulders strongly to keep him upright.

"Have a care," Harvey murmured."Mike is currently convalescing."

"Oh.Oh, merciful heavens.I'm so sorry Mike.It's just, I'm so happy to see you.I'm near at my wit's end.Trev – that is, Mr. Evans – has been keeping our bellies fed with a decent supply of groceries, but we can't rely on him forever."She glanced over her shoulder, back into the house, and lowered her voice."And that nasty piece of business who claims he's your cousin?He takes more than he should, and never contributes a single, solitary thing.Plus, he thinks he's entitled to certain, er, _rights,_ if you take my meaning."She gave an indignant sniff.

"What's this now?"Trevor took a step forward, expression dark.

"Don't take on like that," urged Jenny."I set him straight.Don't you worry about that."

"Maybe I'll set him straighter still."

"Trevor …"Jenny appeared both exasperated and shyly pleased with Trevor's bluster.

Harvey cleared his throat meaningfully.

Jenny smacked a hand to her own forehead."I'm sorely out of practice.Come inside.Thank the lord you're back, Mike, and able to take things in hand."She clutched Mike's arm, all but dragging him inside the house, and whispering, "I’m sorry to tell you that your grandmother is declining, more every day.It's good that you came when you did."

She might have said more, or Mike might have questioned her, but as they entered the vestibule, they found Logan waiting for them, straight-backed, hands behind his back, and looking for all the world as if he owned the place.

"Logan?" said Mike wonderingly, even though he'd known he would likely see him today."You look … well."

In fact, Logan did not look particularly well at all.He remained handsome as ever, but had thinned, and taken on a sharpness which Mike did not recall, which gave him a cruel aspect.He was dressed tolerably well, although Mike guessed the fashion was a few seasons out-of-date – not that Mike knew precisely what was current at the moment.A second, closer look had Mike suspecting that Logan had borrowed some of Mike's own clothes, left behind when he journeyed to Rosswood.

Logan smiled, although Mike noticed this brief rearrangement of facial muscles did not alter the cold light in his eyes."Little Cousin Mike.I heard the happy news, that you had somehow managed to escape the madhouse.I trust then, that you've learned your lessons about how to properly behave in the world?"

Mike had no ready reply for that.Is that what Logan believed had been the goal of Superintendent Brooks and his employees?Logan made it sound as if he had merely been learning manners and deportment.He could feel his mouth hanging open, but no sounds emerged.

Again, Harvey stepped into the breach."Sanders, I'll thank you to address any remarks to myself, and not to my client."

"Oh, he's the client now, is he?And here, I thought it was the turnip down the hall."

Mike found his voice, strangled as it was."Turnip?"

"Parsnip.Carrot.Rutabaga.Take your pick.She is about as sensible as a root vegetable."

"That is … is … damnably unkind.Cruel … and … and … utterly devoid of respect.How dare you?"Mike was so angry, his entire body shook with rage, so much so that he might have tumbled to the ground if Harvey hadn't kept a steadying hand on his arm.

Logan shrugged and turned his back."See for yourself if you don't believe it.As for me, I believe I'll help myself to another glass of the excellent port in the drawing room." He strolled in that direction.

"See what I mean?" asked Jenny archly."I don't see how that lout could be related to you, or dear old Edith."

"Is she really in that bad a state?"

Jenny's mouth twisted."Some days.Other days she is quite clear of mind and the same sweet woman I've known since I was a little girl.Today?I suppose you'll have to see for yourself."

Mike nodded disconsolately."Yes, I suppose I will."

"Do you want me to go with you?" asked Trevor.

A glance at Harvey told Mike he stood at the ready as well.Mike shook his head."No.I need to do this myself."

"Oh," fussed Jenny, "my manners.Let me take your coats, and your hats and cane."

Harvey and Mike removed their overcoats and handed them over to Jenny with their hats, but Mike held onto the cane.Trevor refused to give up anything to her, but she seemed used to this behavior, causing Mike to wonder exactly how many times Trevor had visited the house.He could feel eyes on him as he limped down the hall to his grandmother's bedroom, and forced himself to keep his back straight.He knocked on the door, and then turned the knob.

When he opened the door, he found himself face-to-face with a spectral apparition that caused him to gasp and take a step backwards.Above a pale dress and apron, a pale face seemed to float, with wispy white hair around the edges, set with dark, glittering eyes, a round, veiny nose, and thin, pinched mouth.Everything about the face spoke of disapproval and annoyance.It took Mike several moments of surprise before his memory supplied him with a name."Norma?Is that you?"

"Of course it's me, you nitwit.And you’re you.It’s past time you showed your face around here."She gestured behind her."All she asks about these days is you.Where's Mike?Where's my sweet boy?She barely eats a bite of my cooking."

Grimacing, she looked as if she might spit out something unpleasant, but then appeared to swallow whatever it was."Of course, sometimes it's her James she asks after.Been losing her wits for years."She smiled meanly at Mike."Heard you lost yours, samewise.Must run in the family."She cackled until a cough overtook her."Oh, don't look at me like that.The lot of you may be mad as hatters, but there's worse things to be."She glanced past Mike, down the hallway behind him.“I’d take mad over cruel and selfish any day of the week.”

Mike supposed she was speaking of Logan.His normal inclination to defend his cousin seemed to have disappeared, so he gave a distracted nod and moved past her, into the room.His grandmother lay in bed, covered to the chin with a satin coverlet, thin face devoid of color.“Is she … ”

“Is she what?Dead?Can’t you see her breathing?”

Mike could.He nodded uncertainly.“Should I wake her up?”

No reply from Norma was required.His grandmother’s eyes opened, and her gaze went immediately to Mike’s face.“Michael?”A hint of wonder colored a voice which was noticeably weak and thready.“Is the war over at last?You survived?”

The door closed softly behind him, and Mike realized they were alone.“Yes, it’s over.And as you can see, I am very much alive.I … I’m sorry it took me so long to get home.”He sat in a chair which had been placed close to the bed.

Edith took half a minute to cough into a crumpled handkerchief.“That doesn’t matter.”She paused, seeming to struggle for breath.“You’re here.I waited.No one could tell me your fate, but I held on, and you’re finally home.”She reached for him, and he clasped her fragile hand in both of his.“I want you to … I need you …”Breaking off, she coughed again, shaking her entire frame.

“It’s all right, Grammy.Don’t overtax yourself.There will be more visits, I promise.”He found a pitcher of water and poured her a glass.“Here.Drink this.”

He held the glass to her mouth, and her eyes never left his face as she managed to get down a small amount of water.

“I …”She sagged back against her pillows.“I don’t have much time.I feel it. I'm so weak.I wanted to tell you …”She trailed off, frowning, as if she’d lost her train of thought.“Have you been eating enough, my dear?”

“I should ask the same of you.”

Her mouth tightened into what might have been an attempt at a smile.“I’ve been wanting to tell you that you need to take care with Michael.”

A pang shot through him as he realized that her wandering mind had mistaken him for his father.

“And why is that?” he asked, voice gentle.

“Because he’s special.His mind … he’s as sharp as anyone I’ve ever known, but he’s too sensitive.If war comes, he should stay well out of it.Promise me?”

Mike had no ready response for that, and could only stare helplessly back at her.

“Promise,” she insisted.

“I promise.”What else could he say?He lifted her hand from the covers and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“That’s good.”Her eyes drifted closed, and then she opened them again with obvious effort.“You were always a good boy, Michael.”

“Ah … I’ve tried.”His face tightened.“I’m sorry, Grammy.I’m sorry I went away.I never should have left.”

“You’re back now.That’s all that matters.We must plan a dinner at Delmonico’s to celebrate.”She struggled briefly to sit up, but gave up almost immediately.“I’m just so tired, though. Next week, perhaps.We’ll count on that.You can get Michael fitted for a new suit, and Nina should wear that blue dress you always loved.”

She continued talking, making plans, but soon her voice trailed off, and Mike realized she had fallen asleep.He remained where he was, holding her hand, watching her chest rise and fall erratically, and wishing he could somehow get back the last three years.

******

Trevor had disappeared with Jenny to another part of the house, leaving Harvey alone with Logan Sanders.A silence stretched between them which was not only uncomfortable, but palpably hostile.

"You're awfully free with Mrs. Ross's good liquor," Harvey finally noted, not bothering to hide his disapproval for the behavior of Sanders, who was sprawled casually in the most comfortable chair, glass in one hand and crystal decanter dangling negligently from the other.

"What I choose to drink is none of your concern, Specter.Your firm is not being paid in liquor, after all."

"My firm is not being paid a dime by you.Frankly, I'm still not clear as to why you're here.Who gave you permission to stay in this house?"

"Permission?I'm family."

"Barely.You're no kin to Edith Ross."

"Ask her grandson, then.He's always happy to see me."Sanders drained his glass, and gave an ugly laugh."Unnaturally happy, if you take my meaning."

Harvey took a few moments to allow a hot flare of anger to settle.He was momentarily tempted to search out the liquor cabinet himself, but decided it was safer to remain completely sober in the present company."If it were within the bounds of the law," he finally pronounced, "I'd see you jailed for what you did to Mike."

Sanders poured himself another drink, and let the now empty decanter fall to the carpet.""What I did? I got the poor boy the help he so desperately needed.If a little port is to be my reward for that, surely I’m worth that much?”

An image of Mike as Harvey had first seen him in the asylum caused him to scowl, and his words came out even more harshly than he had intended.“You condemned him to hell, simply to satisfy your base greed.What sort of man does that to another man?Who treats family that way?You’re lower than a beast.”

Sanders tipped his head back and howled with laughter, not that unlike the beast Harvey had named him.Harvey realized that he was quite drunk, even though it was still morning.He had long past learned that it was rarely a wise choice to argue with a drunk man, so he pressed his lips together and determined to endure the vile dog’s presences in silence, until Mike finished his visit with his grandmother.

Sanders, however, had other ideas.He rose unsteadily, and wove his way to the liquor cabinet, selecting what appeared to Harvey to be the last bottle of port.After a short struggle to pull out the cork, he reclaimed his seat, drinking straight from the bottle now.“You think this family has money?Some, perhaps, but my father would have put them all to shame.We lived in a mansion twice this size in New Orleans, and summered at an equally elegant house on Lake Pontchartrain.Daddy made his money as an exporter.My god, we had so many slaves, we didn’t have to lift a finger, not even to open a door.Why, I don’t think I so much as touched a door until I came north.”

Was Harvey supposed to feel sorry for him?He knew the story of Sanders’ parents, how they’d died of the fever, and left Sanders orphaned.He also knew that Sanders’s father had left him without an inheritance, having gambled away every cent he had in the gambling halls of New Orleans.The Rosses had taken him in, and given him everything he needed for a comfortable life.Funny, how one orphan could turn out so rotten, while another – Mike – had turned out so sweet.

Was he, though?Did Harvey really know him, or had he simply made assumptions, and created an image of him in his mind which didn’t match reality?He pondered the question for a few seconds, and concluded that he wasn’t wrong about Mike.Despite his misfortunes as a child, his horrific experiences during the war, and the brutality of the madhouse, he had somehow managed to retain a gentleness and clear-eyed honesty.

His one blind spot sat – or rather slouched – in front of Harvey right now.Each word Sanders spoke revealed him to be the worst sort of scoundrel. 

“Tell me, Specter,” slurred the scoundrel in question, “did you and Mike ever … ?”

Harvey’s face tightened and something cold touched his insides.“Did we ever what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.

Sanders laughed again.“He prefers to take the part of the woman in matters of, er, physical dalliance.Oh, don’t scowl at me like that.It’s just that you’ve spent a good deal of time with him this past week.I hear you’re even rooming together, and sharing the same bed.What’s it like?How does it feel to have your prick inside – ”

Harvey surged to his feet.“Sir!Cease your filthy accusations, or I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“Ha.Touched a nerve, I see.What are you going to do, Specter?Challenge me to a duel to defend the honor of a sodomite?Go right ahead.Back where I come from, that’s how these things were settled.Just don’t be surprised if his dirty little secret rubs off on you.”He drank from the bottle, not seeming to care that he sloshed port down the front of his clothes.“What do you say?Fifty paces at dawn?I’ll surely shoot that smug sneer right off your face.”

Harvey’s hands curled into fists.He took one deliberate step toward Sanders.Would he have hit him?A voice behind him stopped him, preventing him from finding out.

“Harvey was right about you all along.”Mike stood in the doorway to the drawing room, leaning heavily on his cane, face pale and haggard.His eyes gleamed with anger.“You are not a good person.”

“What’s fun about being good?And what’s good about you?You’re immoral, and a madman as well.You should still be locked up, and if I have anything to say about it, you’ll be back in the asylum before the week is out.”

Harvey took a step toward Mike, anticipating his imminent collapse.Instead, Mike stood straighter and said in a clear voice which hardly shook at all, “Then it’s a good thing you have nothing to say about it.Harvey has promised to prevent my return to Utica, and I trust him to keep his word.As for you, you’re not wanted in this house, and as of this moment, you are no family of mine.Gather your things – if you have any possessions of your own – and leave at once.”

“I’m not going anywhere.Who’s going to make me?”Sanders looked Mike up and down, sneering.“You?”

“No,” said Harvey, “me.”

“And me,” added Trevor, who had silently appeared behind Mike.He set his hands on his hips, showing off his two pistols.“You’re so drunk, I’m confident I could drag you out of here without resorting to gun play.I’m hoping you put up a struggle, because it would be damnably satisfying to have an excuse to shoot you in the kneecap.”

It seemed to take Sanders’ muddled mind a few seconds to comprehend Trevor’s threat, but when it did, he blanched.Even still, he clung to his false bravado.“Fine.I’ll go, but when I win my case, I’ll sell this place off piece by piece, and tear down whatever is left.Dear, sweet Grammy will be out on the street, along with her two shrewish serving women.”

“You’re not going to win,” said Harvey.He pulled his pocket watch out of his vest.“You have precisely five minutes to gather your belongings and get out.Kindly leave the candlesticks and silver behind.”

Sanders paused for a few seconds, and then evidently decided he could not prevail against the three of them.With an ugly frown, he headed for the staircase and climbed to the second floor.Harvey turned away from watching him to find Mike at last succumbing to his weakness.Harvey grabbed his shoulders before he could fall to the ground, and helped him onto the settee.

Despite Mike’s strong denunciation of his cousin, he now appeared thoroughly distraught at the denouement.

“It’s for the best that you find out now,” said Harvey gently.

“I suppose so.”Mike slumped, looked so dejected that Harvey’s heart ached for him.“I’d like to leave this place.The sooner the better.”

Harvey felt the same way.He looked at Trevor, casting a shrewd eye at the way the girl, Jenny hovered near him.Her lips, he saw now, were plump and red from being recently kissed.“Perhaps,” said Harvey, “Trevor could stay behind to guard against any further trouble from Sanders.”

Trevor agreed straight away, seeming to relieve Mike’s mind somewhat.

They heard Sanders clomping back down the stairs.He didn’t return to the drawing room.Moments later, the front door slammed behind him.

Mike sighed, but made no comment.His complexion had turned a ghastly, chalky white.

“Let’s get you home,” said Harvey.

Mike nodded wearily and levered himself to his feet.“I’m likely to sleep the rest of the day and night away, and perhaps all day Sunday as well.”

“Good.”

This surprised a weak laugh out of Mike.“Why good?I rather think it makes me a useless sort of person.”

Harvey touched Mike’s back, urging him forward and out of the house.“You’ll need every bit of strength you can muster for your interview with Daniel on Monday.”

“Ugh.The thought of that is bound to give me nightmares.”

“Try not to worry about it.That’s what you have me for.”

“For which I am heartily grateful.”

Harvey watched him limp toward the waiting hansom cab, and had to resist the urge to wrap an arm around him to keep him upright.The young man had somehow gotten past his defenses, and had activated a strong protective streak he hadn’t known he possessed.

As he caught up with Mike, opened the cab door for him, and helped him inside, he counseled himself to keep a cool distance between them.On the ride home, Harvey stared moodily out the window, acknowledging glumly to himself that it was probably too late.He wanted Mike, and sooner or later, he would quite likely have him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm still hoping to get another chapter in next month. However, I have another obligation which should take precedence, so it might be a bit longer this time. I think I'm about halfway through this story. Still lots of twists and turns to come. Smut is not too far away (if that's what you're here for ....).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm back at it. Sorry for the delay. Going forward, barring as yet unforeseen circumstances, I'm hoping to complete one chapter per month. (And we'll call this one the April chapter, since it was meant to be posted this past weekend.)
> 
> If you haven't yet seen it, there is now cover art for the story, if you pop back to Ch. 1, done by the talented iamjohnlocked4life . (In case you don't follow me on tumblr, I was the high bidder in an auction, and that's how I got the cool art.)

Mike slept the rest of the day on Saturday, only rising to make his way downstairs for supper.  That night, he tossed restlessly, plagued by half-remembered nightmares, until Harvey whispered to him that everything was all right, and bade him to be still.

Sunday morning, he discovered that Harvey had procured several new sets of clothing for him.  Feeling much energized by his rest the previous day, he dressed and spent much of the morning sitting in the parlor with the other boarders, reading the latest dime novel borrowed from Donna, and occasionally sharing in the conversation, which ranged from the recent impeachment of President Johnson, to the Reconstruction Acts of the previous year. 

As he listened to the easy discussion of current events, it grew clear to Mike how much he had missed during his years in the asylum.  The world had moved on, and when he had recuperated further, he would have to take some time to catch up.  He could visit the Astor Library, or perhaps the Herald would allow him to peruse their back issues.

He did his best not to dwell upon the emotional visit of the previous day.  It eased his mind to know that Trevor had remained as protector, even if Mike felt the job should have fallen to him, if only he'd been stronger.  Despite his attempts to distract himself, his thoughts went again and again to his grandmother, and how weak and confused he'd found her.  After seeing her, he doubted she would linger much longer, and could only be grateful that Harvey had given him the opportunity to see her at least one more time.

Harvey was away for most of the day.  When Mike enquired about him, Donna explained to Mike that he often spent his Saturdays and Sundays at the office, preparing his cases for the next week. 

"If that's true," Mike replied, with a wry smile, "I fear I've set him even further behind, with all he's done for me."

"Don't worry about it," she said, patting his hand in a motherly fashion.  "Harvey will manage.  And speaking as someone who has known him for a long time, it warms my heart to see him exerting himself for something other than enriching his clients – or filling his bed."  Donna tilted her head as if taking a closer look at Mike.  "Although …"

Mike laughed nervously.  He didn't want to admit it, not even to Donna, but during the nights he'd spent with Harvey while not in the worst throes of withdrawal, he had quite enjoyed sharing Harvey's bed.  He'd tried to keep his distance, for Harvey's sake.  It can't have been an ideal situation for him, to be saddled with – and for close to a week, giving up his bed to – a recovering opium addict and confirmed lunatic.  Despite Mike's best intentions, by morning they always ended up tangled around one another, with never a complaint from Harvey.

"I fear," said Mike, wishing to change the subject, "that I still have a long road of recovery ahead of me.  In fact, I believe I'll head back upstairs to lie down."

"Supper is at four on Sundays."

Mike nodded, and pushed to his feet, striving to hide exactly how difficult this simple movement was.  No one in the room remarked upon it, and he was left to struggle up the stairs on his own.  By the time, he made it to the bed, he was panting like a freight train, perspiring freely, and leaning heavily on his cane.  He wanted nothing more than to collapse face down on the bed, but forced himself to take the time and effort to remove his new clothes, and hang them carefully in the closet.

Finally, he crawled gratefully into bed.  Despite his great weariness, however, the sleep which he craved would not come.

 

******

 

“How’s the patient?” asked Harvey, strolling into the kitchen, and neatly capturing a freshly baked cookie before Donna could move the cooling rack out of his reach.  He ate the cookie in three bites.  “Has he been resting, as ordered?”

“Help me with this chicken, would you?” 

Donna thrust two oven mitts at him, and he obligingly lifted the pan of roast chicken from the oven and placed it on the wooden countertop.  Before he could peel a piece of crispy skin off and eat it, Donna whacked the back of his hand with a wooden spoon.

“Ouch.  So?” prompted Harvey.  “The patient?  Mike?”

“You’d do better to ask his nurse, which I am not.  To my eye, he seems weak as a kitten, but otherwise tolerably well.  He joined us for a while in the parlor, until he grew too weary to sit up straight.”  She wiped her hands on her apron, and gave him a piercing look.  “He needs more time.”

Harvey feared she could be right, but would never admit that to her.  “He’ll do fine tomorrow.”

“He can barely walk three feet without collapsing into a puddle.”

“We’ll be seated when we meet with Daniel.”

“You should push the meeting back, for a week if you can, or at least a few days.”

He frowned.  “Daniel would see that as a sign of weakness, which he will seize upon as cause to have Mike declared unfit.”

“Maybe he is unfit.  Maybe this is all just too much for him right now.”

“Donna …”

He caught an abrupt movement at the edges of vision, and turned to find Mike standing – or rather, leaning – in the doorway, bright blue gaze fixed on Harvey.

“Do you think I’m unfit, Harvey?”

“I never said that.”

“Donna?”

She had the good grace to look guilty about her remark.  “I don’t question your mental acuity, but you’ve been through an awful lot, these past several years.  I’m only suggesting that forcing this legal issue while you remain so fragile – ”

Harvey opened his mouth, prepared to refute her, but Mike was quicker.

“I am not fragile.  As you said, I’ve lived through hell, and made it out the other side – or close enough that I may confidently name the journey a success.  And Daniel Hardman has left me no choice but to fight this with everything I have, little as that may be at present.  If he and Logan have their way, I would be sent straightaway back to the asylum.  If that means I must drag myself to that meeting tomorrow, do handstands and backflips, and recite half the Astor Library in order to prove myself, I will do so.  No one is sending me back.  Not ever.”

Harvey knew he was grinning foolishly at Mike, but he couldn’t help himself.  He’d experienced a surge of pride – misplaced though it might be – at this show of spirit from Mike.  “Did you come down for dinner?  Judging by the aromas in here, it promises to be spectacular, as usual.  In fact, if you show Donna those pretty, big, blue eyes of yours, you may be able to cadge a fresh cinnamon cookie to hold you over.”

“Mike doesn’t need to beg.  He may have as many cookies as he likes.”  She stepped closer, and murmured so low that only Harvey could hear, “You admire his eyes, eh?  Noted.”

Harvey made a scoffing sound.  “Your comedic skills astound me.  Have you ever considered a career on the stage?”

“Have a care, Harvey.  I advise you to shut up about that, or you’ll get more than my spoon next time.”  To emphasize her threat, Donna lifted the carving knife and made a show of sharpening it on the whetstone.

All too aware that, as a general rule, Donna did not bluff, Harvey grasped a cookie-munching Mike’s upper arm and dragged him from the room.

“I’m glad to see your appetite, at least, is healthy.  Careful of the crumbs.”

In the parlor, they found Rachel, Jessica, and Harold, ostensibly waiting for supper to be served.

“The roast chicken is being carved,” Harvey informed the room.

Rachel rose from her seat.  “I’ll go help Donna get everything on the table.”

“Me too.”  Harold jumped to his feet and followed her from the room.

As Mike brushed cookie crumbs from his lapels, Harvey took a moment to appreciate how fine he looked in the new suit Harvey’s tailor had sewn for him.  It could use a few alterations here and there, but still fit him nearly to perfection.  Sometime this week, he would take Mike in to be measured and fitted for several more sets of clothes.  Harvey told himself he should put the clothes on Mike’s bill, but deep down he knew that would never happen.  Something about dressing Mike appealed to him.

_But not as much as undressing him._

He gave his head an annoyed shake.  Perhaps it was time to arrange another visit from Jesse, or Jamie, or whatever the little whore’s name had been.  Except Mike would be sleeping next to him for the foreseeable future.  The idea should have bothered him more than it did.

 

*****

 

"Mike."  Harvey spoke with quiet urgency, assuming Mike was asleep.  He was therefore surprised when he received an immediate, sharp reply.

"What?"

"You're flopping around like a fish on the line.  Need I remind you how important it is that you're well-rested tomorrow?"

Mike gave a frustrated growl.  "You needn't.  That reality has been at the forefront of my thoughts these past several days."

"And yet, it’s after midnight, and I find you wide awake."

Rolling onto his back, Mike thumped the coverlet with one clenched fist and glared at the ceiling.  "I can't relax.  Every time I close my eyes, I imagine I'm back at the asylum, locked inside that infernal wooden cage."  The look he darted towards Harvey was rueful.  "Perhaps that proves the very insanity I'm meant to refute tomorrow."

A moment passed before Harvey dared trust his voice.  "No.  No, it doesn't.  Quite the opposite."

One side of Mike's mouth lifted in a smile.  "Thank you for that.  Unfortunately, your words of support do nothing to speed me any faster towards sleep."

Harvey rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, and gazing down at Mike while he rapidly examined his own motives.  "I'd like to propose a remedy to your restlessness."

Mike arched an eyebrow.

"With your permission," whispered Harvey, inching closer and laying his hand on Mike's hip, "I could make you forget all about Hardman, and Sanders, and the asylum, and the meeting tomorrow, at least for a time.  And if I’m successful, your body and mind should both receive the surcease they so badly need.”

Blinking slowly, Mike was silent for long seconds, during which Harvey held his breath.  Finally, “I can only think of two possible remedies,” murmured Mike, “and I cannot bring myself to believe you mean to allow me some of the drug – ”

“No!”  Mike’s suggestion took Harvey by surprise.  “No,” he repeated in a gentler tone.  “Not that.  Never that.  Can we agree that is all in the past?”

Mike nodded, expression wary.  “That leaves the second remedy.  Am I to understand that you are suggesting … er…”

Mike’s pink checks had Harvey hiding his smile.  “What I’m suggesting, to be as frank as I may, is that I lift your nightshirt and take you in hand, and pleasure you until you cry out, loud enough to awaken Rachel and give her cause to make one of her tart, utterly inappropriate comments in the morning.”

Mike croaked out a laugh, while still managing to appear thoroughly scandalized.  “That is … are the walls truly that thin?”

“Yes, and my former bedmates that loud.”  He might have added that he was that skilled in pleasuring them, but thought it better that Mike learn that firsthand.

Mike broke eye contact.  “Have there been that many of them?  I mean … no, don’t answer.  It’s no business of mine.  Except that I must congratulate you, that you’ve found a living situation which allows you …”

“To be why I truly am?”

Nodding, Mike swallowed thickly.  He seemed to have lost his ability to speak for the moment.

Harvey waited, and finally prompted, “So?  Do I have your permission to continue?”

“Ah.  I will grant permission, but it will do no good.  I haven’t been able … that is, I seem to have gone, er, dormant in that area.  A side effect of the drug, I fear.”  He appeared thoroughly mortified at his own admission.

“Hm.  I’m not a doctor, but I’d guess that since the drug has presumably left your body, either entirely or nearly so, it is only a matter of time until everything is back in proper working order.”

“Maybe.”  Mike fiddled with the coverlet.  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try.  If we meet with no success, please know the failure is not owing to …”

He met Harvey’s gaze once more, causing Harvey to realize how much he had missed having those shining, blue eyes fixed upon him, even for so short a time. 

“Not owing to what?” asked Harvey as he pulled the coverlet down and out of the way.

“To, er, your attractiveness and desirability.”  Harvey hadn’t touched him yet, and Mike was breathing hard.

Harvey’s hand paused midmovement, and then reached once more for the hem of Mike’s nightshirt.  “Understood.  Whatever the outcome, I’ll take no offense.  Now, kindly lie still, and remain quiet.”

Mike gave one curt nod, shut his eyes, and relaxed into the pillows and mattress.  After lifting the nightshirt and tugging it up, out of the way, Harvey gathered Mike’s cock in one hand, finding it as limp as Mike had predicted. 

“Do you object to a kiss?”

One of Mike’s eyes cracked opened for half a second, and he shook his head. 

Holding Mike’s lifeless prick in his soft grasp, Harvey leaned over him and touched his lips to Mike’s – which he found pressed tightly together.  He caressed the side of Mike’s face, and licked across the seam of his closed mouth.  “Open up for me, if you please,” he whispered, allowing his warm breath to waft over Mike’s face and neck.  When Mike’s mouth parted infinitesimally, Harvey kissed him, penetrating his mouth with the tip of his tongue, as he moved his lips softly over Mike’s.

He both felt and heard Mike swallow, and took this as an invitation to probe more deeply, plunging his tongue into Mike’s mouth and taking possession, exploring at will.  He felt Mike’s hands on his shoulders, urging him closer, but he lifted his head and gazed down into blue eyes darkened by desire.  In his hand, Mike’s cock remained as flaccid as ever.

He lifted his other hand to Mike’s mouth, index finger extended.  “Suck on it,” he ordered.  “Get it good and wet.”

With no hesitation, Mike’s mouth closed around Harvey’s finger, applying gentle, damp suction.  Mike’s cock twitched once, and was still again.  On the strength of that one, small movement, however, Harvey knew that he would be successful.  He stroked Mike’s shaft with his thumb, and brought the wet index finger of his other hand to Mike’s tight, puckered hole.  Not bothering to ask permission, he pushed his fingertip past resistance, and then fucked in and out, with short, shallow stabs.

“ _Oh._ ”  Mike grabbed Harvey’s wrist, but didn’t attempt to stop him, or pull him away.  His hips jerked, matching Harvey’s movements, not drawing him any deeper, but clearly demonstrating how much he enjoyed the sensation. 

Harvey was considering whether to lower his mouth over Mike’s cock, to see if that would speed things along, but just then, he felt Mike’s cock begin to plump and harden his hand.

“God,” gasped Mike on a half-sob.  “Please.  Oh.  _Christ._ ”  His hips began jerking more frantically.

“Hold,” ordered Harvey.  “Let me.  Lie still and allow me to give you what you require.”

Mike made a strangled, inarticulate noise and grew still, eyes focused on Harvey’s face with something akin to desperation.

Harvey hefted his cock in his hand, rubbing the crown with his thumb, spreading the moisture he found at the tip.  “You see?” he murmured, probably sounding too smug.  “All that was needed was a bit of encouragement.”

“Feel free,” panted Mike, “to encourage me further.”

Harvey smiled as he adjusted his position, moving down the bed with the intention of sucking Mike to completion.  “Come whenever you like.”

Holding Mike’s shaft in his palm, he lowered his mouth over the head, tasting a burst of salty moisture over his tongue.  He knew Mike to be no virgin, but found himself treating him with care, as if he had never known a man’s intimate touch before.  Perhaps this was owing to the length of time he’d been denied pleasure of this sort while in the asylum.  Or perhaps, despite Mike’s protestations earlier that day, Harvey did still see him as fragile.  Whatever the case, he sucked him gently and slowly, caressing his belly and thighs, rolling his tightening balls in his hands.  Finally, finally, as Mike’s pretty, flushed cock pulsed with the same frantic rhythm as his heart, Harvey took him all the way down, swallowing and swallowing around him, one finger darting in and out of his hole. 

Mike grasped the bedclothes in two white-knuckled fists and gasped, seeming to fight the need to thrust up, “I’m close.  I’m right there.  Have a care – ”

Harvey answered his sweet warning by plunging his finger knuckle-deep inside him and tonguing the underside of his cockhead as he pumped the shaft rapidly.  When Mike began to come, he closed his lips around the head and allowed Mike’s hot, spurting spend to slide down his throat.  Fingers gripped his hair, pulling just to the edge of pain.  Harvey gave a grunt of approval, and continued to suck until Mike grew still and pleaded for him to stop.

With reluctance, he let Mike’s exhausted cock slip from between his wet lips and rested his head on Mike’s hip, fingertips brushing up and down his thigh.

 

******

 

 Mike felt as if his brain had been dynamited.  If he turned his head, would he see brain matter dripping down the walls?  He hadn’t believed his body capable of such a response, not yet anyway.  It had been wonderful, though.  Harvey had been wonderful. 

“I should …” Mike gasped, drew in several more breaths, and tried again.  “If you’ll allow me a moment or two to recover, I will return the favor as well as I might.”

“There is no need.”  Harvey’s word came to him slightly muffled by Mike’s thigh.

“No, I want to.  If you think me incapable …”

“I’m not doubting you, but I meant it when I said there is no need.”  Harvey rolled away, allowing chill air to rush back in, and moved back up to lie next to Mike.  “Simply watching you was enough to send me over the edge.”  Grasping Mike’s hand, he lifted it and set it down on his thigh, where Mike could feel Harvey’s drying spend.

Feeling unaccountably foolish, Mike blushed.  “Good to know.  A happy outcome all ‘round, then.”

“Indeed.”

Harvey had accomplished his goal.  Mike was a great deal more relaxed, and already yawning.  “Thank you.”  He smoothed his nightshirt back into place, rearranged the bedclothes, and eyed Harvey where he stood by the water basin, cleaning himself with a damp cloth. 

Harvey caught him looking, and favored him with a completely unselfconscious grin.  “You’re most welcome.  I trust sleep will come more easily n –”

Harvey broke off and cocked his head to one side.  In the sudden silence, Mike heard what Harvey had:  loud knocking downstairs at the front door.

“Who do you suppose that is?” asked Mike.  He realized, as well as Harvey did, that visitors in the earlier hours of the morning rarely, if ever, brought good news.  “Will Donna answer them?”

“She will.”  Harvey was already pulling on trousers, halfway tucking his nightshirt into them, and shoving his feet into a pair of leather slippers.  “But I’d best be at her side in case there is any trouble.”

Mike sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, but Harvey stopped him with a glare.  “Stay put,” he growled.

Harvey strode from the room.  Mike stared after him for perhaps five seconds, and then he was up and reaching for his own trousers.  When he made it downstairs, it was to discover Harvey, Donna, and a highly agitated Trevor in the foyer.  Three heads turned, and three sets of eyes fixed upon Mike.

“What?”  He’d already guessed, because why else would Trevor be here now? 

Still, when Harvey confirmed his worst fears, when he spoke the words aloud, Mike felt as if the already weakened foundations of his world collapsed beneath him.

“It’s your grandmother,” stated Harvey with quiet solemnity.  “She is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

In certain respects, the following week felt to Mike as if he had once again fallen under the influence of the drug.  Numbness filled him.  People spoke to him, but little of what they said made sense.  He might have slipped back into his old habit of reciting, throwing up a wall of words between himself and the truth of what he would prefer not to face.  Two things stopped him.  First, he was too paralyzed with grief to think, or speak much beyond that which was necessary to accomplish what needed to be done.  Second, and perhaps more importantly, Harvey remained constantly by his side, lending strength and support, and keeping him anchored to reality.

Harvey sent Trevor straight back to the house, to keep guard in case Logan tried to move back in after he received the news of Grammy’s death.  He pushed the meeting with Hardman forward a week.  He took care of all the arrangements for Grammy's funeral and burial.  And he stood next to Mike, stalwart and steady, as shovelfuls of dirt landed on the top of her coffin, their impact sounding louder and more terrifying than the cannons at Petersburg.

Mike didn't cry.  In some ways, he had been grieving the loss of his grandmother for years.  This was simply the final goodbye.  While in the public eye, his energies were, of necessity, devoted to simply holding himself together, to demonstrate a rational demeanor which he did not feel, and knew he did not possess.  Harvey had alerted him to the presence of both Hardman and Logan at the funeral, and counselled Mike to maintain his distance from both.  This was easy enough, as neither made a move to approach him.

Donna and all of her boarders had shown up as a gesture of support, which both surprised and touched Mike.  Jenny and Norma came on their own, without Trevor.  His old friend’s absence might have hurt Mike, but Jenny assured him that he had wanted to come, but decided his place was to continue guarding the house.  This small group made up the totality of mourners.  Whether Grammy had not possessed any friends, or they had preceded her into the afterlife, Mike could not have said for certain.

Later, as he sat next to Harvey in the hansom cab, returning home (to Harvey's home, he reminded himself sternly, not his own home), Mike breathed out a weary sigh and asked, "What happens next?"

Harvey eyed him seriously for long moments, leaving Mike to wish that he would place a supporting hand on Mike’s shoulder, or better yet, draw him into a comforting embrace.  He did neither.

 “We spend the weekend preparing you for Monday,” Harvey said at last.

“Preparing?  I am as I was yesterday, and will be tomorrow.”

“Each day you grow stronger.  I am not so unfeeling as to suggest that the delay caused by your grandmother’s death is a godsend, but …”  Harvey pressed his lips together and let the sentence remain unfinished.

Mike sighed.  “It’s true enough.  I can see that as clearly as you.  No need to feel guilty for stating the obvious.”

“Who said anything about guilt?”

Rubbing his forehead tiredly, Mike sank back into his seat.  “My apologies.  I – I seem to have lost the thread of our conversation.  You were saying…?”

“It’s not important.  You are obviously over tired.  Let’s get you home, and into bed.  After you’ve had a chance to sleep, and are refreshed, we can speak again.”

Mike nodded.  It had been so long since he’d felt well-rested and in good health, that part of him questioned whether he could achieve something so desirous ever again.  He thought about suggesting that he relocate to his grandmother’s house, but the notion sounded so overwhelming to him in that moment that he kept quiet on the matter.  Trevor continued to guard the house, and that would have to suffice for now.

 

******

 

“I can still send a message to Hardman,” said Harvey, as he and Mike stood at the bottom of the stairs in the office building downtown.  “We can move the meeting to a restaurant not far from here.”

“It’s only three stories.”  Mike tried to sound sure of himself, but the stairs loomed in front of him like the highest of mountains.  “I’ve been up and down the stairs at the boarding house dozens of times in the past week.”

“One story only.”

“Stop coddling me.”  He saw Harvey stiffen at his sharp tone, and made an effort to soften it.  “We’re early, correct?  If I need to, can I not take a few moments to recover in your office before we meet with Hardman?”

“Yes, of course.  In fact, we’ll go straight there.”

When Harvey put a supporting hand beneath Mike’s elbow, he counselled himself not to flinch or pull away.  This was the first prolonged, intentional contact from Harvey since that memorable night, just before Mike’s world caved in on him again.  Memories of Harvey’s expert touch assailed him, reminding him of the blissful pleasure that hand had bestowed upon him.  His already accelerating pulse and harsh breathing were not helped any by these reminiscences as he made his halting way up one floor, and then another, and another, assisted by both Harvey and his cane.

“Just a few steps more, down this hallway,” murmured Harvey as he ushered Mike past a reception desk.  To the clerk behind the desk, he snapped, “Water and coffee.  My office.”

And then they entered Harvey’s private office, where Mike dropped gratefully into one of the plush armchairs facing a wide, mahogany desk.  He waved Harvey off, who seemed inclined to hover.  “I’m fine.  Just need to catch my breath.”

Harvey moved behind the desk and took a seat, all the while eying Mike critically.  “You look positively consumptive.   Perhaps we should have asked Donna to apply some rouge to your cheeks.”

This coaxed a weak laugh from Mike.  “And how would that strengthen my case for sanity?”

“It might strengthen your case for being alive, and not on the verge of following your grandmother into … sorry.”  Harvey breathed out slowly.  “That was not well said.  You’re fine.  You’ll be fine.  Just remember to show as little weakness as possible to Hardman, or he’ll use it against you.”

“Noted.”

Mike relaxed back into the comfortable chair.  As the elegantly suited young man from the front desk carried in the requested coffee and water, along with a plate of sweet biscuits, Mike gazed around the office with interest.  Bookshelves covered three of the four walls, filled with law books and bronze paperweights.  Framed daguerreotypes and tintypes, covered with glass, hung on the wall, depicting familiar scenes around the city.

One of the pictures drew his attention.  Ignoring the coffee which had been poured for him, he drank half a glass of water, and then climbed to his feet with the help of his cane, and limped over to the wall.  Within an ornate ivory frame, a couple stood stiffly, staring unsmiling at the camera, wearing formal clothing, with a small church behind them.

“Your parents?” he asked, turning to find Harvey watching him.

“Their wedding picture,” Harvey confirmed. 

“Are they still alive?”

“My mother lives somewhere upstate.  I haven’t spoken with her for a number of years.  My father passed five years ago.”

Something in Harvey’s tight, guarded tone made Mike want to both shy away, and probe further, to find out what had caused the sharp crease between his eyebrows.  Despite their brief, physical intimacy, this seemed too much of an intrusion into the life of a man he barely knew.  Searching for a safe topic, he asked, “Was your father a lawyer too?”

Harvey’s mouth relaxed, curving in a fond smile, even as his gaze remained focused inward.  “No.  He was a musician.  Piano player.  He made a decent, if somewhat uneven, living playing at taverns in the Bowery and Five Points.  My mother, a member of the local temperance society, disapproved, but I spent many an afternoon, evening, or late into the night, huddled up in some corner listening to him play, and watching the ‘demon rum’ works its evils on the customers.  Entertaining and educational stuff for a young lad.”

“I’d ask if you’re a teetotaler, but I’ve seen you with a drink in your hand often enough.”

“No, I am not, much to dear Mother’s everlasting disapproval.”  Frowning, Harvey checked his pocket watch.  “Daniel is likely waiting for us to appear.  Have you recovered sufficiently?”

Mike gave a firm nod, which was mostly bluster.  He was far from ready, and half-inclined to limp his way back down the stairs and escape into the crowd.  Instead, he followed Harvey down the hallway, and into the office he remembered from three years ago. 

The oil painting of Hardman with his hounds continued to brood garishly over the room.   Cigar smoke hung thickly in the air.  Daniel Hardman sat behind his desk, and another man stood at the window, with his back to the room.  As Hardman rose to greet the newcomers, the other man turned, revealing himself to be Logan Sanders.  He was smoking one of Hardman’s fat cigars, and was dressed in fashionable clothing, which appeared to be brand new.

The smug, self-satisfied smirk on Logan’s face told Mike almost as much as the predatory, assessing look in Hardman’s eyes.  His heart sank, even as he shook Hardman’s damp hand and took a seat at the conference table which took up half of the large office, resting his cane against one knee.  Harvey was a reassuring presence at his side, and he resolved to let him do all the talking.

 

******

 

Harvey shot a few quick, surreptitious glances in Mike’s direction, deciding that for the moment, he appeared as calm as possible under the circumstances.  The unexpected presence of Logan Sanders at the meeting was a development upon which Harvey had not counted, but he wouldn’t allow it to rattle him.  In fact, he berated himself for not foreseeing this move on Hardman’s part. 

“Sanders,” he acknowledged him, with no warmth in his voice.  “I’m surprised to see you here today.  This was meant to be a meeting between Daniel, Mr. Ross, and myself.”

“I have a stake in this.”  Sanders sat facing Mike, leaning back in his chair, and blew smoke directly across the table.  “I intend to make sure that my dear grandmother’s estate does not fall into the hands of this lunatic.”

“First of all,” replied Harvey, “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue.  Secondly, we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  Daniel called this meeting so he could put whatever questions he needed to Mike, to satisfy himself of his competence.”

“And I have a thing or two to add in that regard.”

Harvey’s molars ground together.  “Shouldn’t your lawyer be here with you, in that case?  Daniel, didn’t you explain that to him?”

Daniel’s eyes had been darting back and forth between the two of them.  Now, he smiled, baring his teeth.  “Oh, dear.  This is awkward.  I’m sure I explained this to you, Harvey.  We are Logan’s attorneys now.  You and I.”

Harvey felt Mike give a start beside him.  He didn’t speak aloud, but Harvey clearly saw his expression of wide-eyed shock.”

“We?  You’re mistaken.  Our firm represents Mike.”

“Ah, no.  We represented Edith Ross, and now represent her estate.  As her most likely heir, that representation transfers to Logan.”

Cold rage settled into Harvey’s gut.  He wanted to lay a hand on Mike’s trembling arm, to reassure him, but that reassurance would have to wait until later.  “You son of a bitch,” he growled lowly.  “You’ve already made up your mind.  You never intended to give Mike a chance to prove himself.”

Daniel’s sly gaze was tinged with contempt.  “Mind your tone.  I made a decision in the interests of this firm.  _My_ firm.  Unless we want the Ross estate tied up in probate for years to come, in the absence of a valid will, we require a clear, and appropriate heir.  Mike Ross is not the heir we need.  Logan is.  I mean, just look at them.”

Albeit reluctantly, Harvey did just that.  Logan appeared utterly confident, puffing on his cigar and eyeing Harvey with an air of smug superiority.  Mike, by contrast, had grown even paler than before, both his expression and hunched shoulders clear evidence of his rising panic.

Feeling backed into a corner, and overcome with mounting fury on Mike’s behalf, Harvey lashed out in the heat of the moment.  “Sanders may be your client, Daniel, and your firm’s client, but he is by god not mine, nor will he ever be.”

“What are you saying, Harvey?”

What was he saying?  It had never been Harvey’s plan to stay with Daniel forever, but he’d expected to work at the firm for a few more years at least.  His gaze moved from Daniel, to Sanders, and then to Mike, and his response all at once become crystal clear.  “I’m saying, if you persist on this course of action, I cannot support you, or the firm.  In short, I’m saying that I intend to represent Mike against you and Sanders, and if you will not accept that, I will, of course, tender my resignation immediately.”

With the words out of his mouth, he gulped down a breath and held it.

“You ungrateful little shit,” hissed Daniel.  “Who gave you a chance when you were just starting out, a green little Harvard boy with no experience in the real world?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?  Yes, you gave me a chance, but I repaid you a hundred times over, and more.”

“You think you’re smart enough to best me?  You overestimate yourself.”

Harvey smiled thinly.  “Oh, I think I’ve always estimated myself correctly.  I’m going to prove that Mike is fully competent to inherit his grandmother’s estate.  And while I’m at it, I’ll see what I can do about getting Sanders tossed in jail.”

“You won’t be taking any clients with you when you go,” warned Hardman, “unless you count this poor confused boy here.  The only one to be locked away at the end of this all will be him, not Logan.”

Logan chuckled.  “All this fuss, over some old woman’s failing estate.  Wouldn’t pistols at dawn be much more elegant?”

Harvey was of the opinion that fisticuffs in Hardman’s office might solve everything quicker, but he refused to give in to that temptation.  He stood up.  “Let’s go, Mike.”

When Mike didn’t move at once, Harvey looked down to find him struggling with some strong emotion.  “Problem?”

No reply.

“If you object to the arrangement, this would be the time to make your opinions known.”

Mike shook his head jerkily.  “No objections.”  He lurched to his feet, holding onto the edge of the table for balance.  “None whatsoever.  Not a single one.”  He turned to leave, but then seemed to think better of it, and pivoted back to face Logan directly.  “If you ever wish to try your hand at pistols at dawn, come and see me.  Leave Harvey out of it.”  He gave his cousin a cold smile.  “I think you might discover that I learned a thing or two in the army.  You might just be surprised.”

To Harvey’s great satisfaction – and likely to Mike’s as well – Sanders blanched visibly.  When he sought to cover his discomfiture with a puff on his cigar, he dissolved into loud, hacking coughs.  Harvey followed Mike out of the room to the sound of Sanders trying and failing to get his breath back.  Harvey sort of knew how he felt.

 

******

 

Later, after they had gotten home and Mike’s temper had cooled, he could scarcely believe he had threatened Logan.

“Do you think he’ll use that against me?” he asked Harvey.

“I hardly think so.  He did bring the subject up first, after all.”

“That’s true.”  He sat on the edge of the bed, watching worriedly as Harvey paced that length of his bedroom.  “I’m sorry about your job.”  He still hadn’t completely absorbed the fact that Harvey had taken such a strong stance on his behalf.

“I’m not.”  Abruptly, Harvey stopped pacing and took a seat at his writing desk, pulling a sheet of parchment from the top drawer and a fountain pen from his inner coat pocket.  He began scribbling what looked like to Mike, from where he sat, an extensive list.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing an inventory of everything in my office that belongs to me.  I should retrieve it now, before it occurs to Daniel to confiscate my property to exact some type of petty revenge on me.”

“Why didn’t we get it before we left?”

“And ruin our dramatic exit?  Besides, I didn’t want to give you a chance to actually challenge Sanders to a duel.”

“I sort of did.”

“No, you threatened him with the possibility.  A bluff upon which he will never call you.”

“It wasn’t a bluff.  I meant every word.”

“Well, let’s avoid any gun play for now.  I can’t afford to lose my only client just yet.”

Another wave of guilt hit Mike.  “You didn’t need to do that.  Not for me.”

“Bah.  Give it no more thought.  It was my choice.  I would have broken from Daniel sooner or later.  Sooner it is.  It’s probably for the best.”

“But what will you do now?”

“Hang out my shingle somewhere else.  Perhaps find myself a partner.  I have some ideas about that.”

“Jessica?”

“Yes, Jessica.  From what I’ve observed so far, she’s twice the lawyer Daniel is – or will be, if ever given the chance.  Also …”  His eyes narrowed on Mike.  “Have you ever thought of going to law school?”

“Me?”  The suggestion took Mike by surprise.  He found, however, as he thought about it, that the idea held some appeal.  “I have not.”  He frowned.  “I’ve no wish to move to Cambridge.”

“No need.  You could attend Columbia College, and clerk at my firm.”

Mike opened his mouth, trying to decide how to respond, but Harvey stopped him with a hand gesture.

“You don’t need to decide right now.  Let’s win your case first.  I don’t know the precise amount left in Edith Ross’s estate, but it may turn out that you’ll be wealthy enough not to need a career.”

“I must do something with my life.  The law, or another path.”

“We can revisit this discussion later.”  He blotted his list, folded it in half and headed for the door.  “Let me get this sent off.  Gregory should be amenable to sending my things.  He’s never cared much for Hardman either.”  Harvey paused.  “How are you feeling?”

“Honestly?  Exhausted beyond belief.”

Harvey took three steps back to the bed, and shocked Mike by leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead.  “You look it.  Get undressed and into bed, and sleep until dinner, if you can.  I’ll wake you up in plenty of time.”

“What about you?  What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Jessica, and start preparing for your day in court.”

This sent a surge of alarm through Mike.  “Court?”

“I’m afraid so.  I don’t see how it can be avoided.  Daniel will not back down without a fight.  Don’t worry.  I haven’t lost a case yet.”

Mike watched Harvey leave, trying not to feel uneasy, and trying to ignore the whisper in his mind warning him, _there’s a first time for everything._

******

 

Harvey’s room was dark when he returned upstairs several hours later, feeling energized by all he had accomplished since that morning.  As he had hoped, Jessica had agreed to partner with him.  It had not taken much to convince her.  He’d won the coin flip, and they’d named the new firm Specter, Pearson & Associates.  They had no associates yet, but both felt it sounded more impressive that way, and might help to attract potential clients.

He’d sent a letter of inquiry to a real estate agent for which he’d done some legal work, and a search would soon be underway for office space.  As the afternoon wore on, a wooden crate arrived with his books and other personal items from work, along with a note from Gregory offering his services if and when Harvey was hiring.  Considering how quickly he had accomplished the task set him, Harvey was strongly inclined to take him up on the offer, at some point in the future.

Now he stood in the dimness of the hallway, staring in at the figure in his bed.  He couldn’t tell if Mike was asleep, but suspected not.  No gentle snuffling snores filled the air.

He still could not believe the manner in which Mike had stood up to Logan Sanders.  It was as if a ghost had came back to life.  The meek young man to whom Harvey had grown accustomed had transformed in front of his eyes, if only for a matter of seconds, into a fierce warrior.  It heartened him to know that Mike could, and would, stand up for himself when necessary.  It also touched him that in part, Mike had been defending him. 

He’d known for quite some time that he was physically attracted to Mike, and had admired his sweet nature from the start.  Now, something stronger and deeper had hold of him, pulling his heart towards Mike.  The notion of giving in to his feelings was compelling, and yet he cautioned himself to remain at a distance.  Neither he nor Mike could afford the scandal or legal consequences of being caught out.

God, he wanted him, though.  This could be the mate he had always envisioned, if society were more open-minded.

“How long are you going to stand out there, staring at me?”

Harvey was surprised into a chuckle.  Speaking of being caught out …  He entered the room, closed the door behind him, opened the curtains, but did not light a lamp.  “I came to inform you that dinner will be served in about half an hour.  I didn’t want to disturb your sleep.”

Bedclothes rustled as Mike sat up in the bed.  The coverlet pooled around his hips, revealing his bare torso.

“You’ll catch a chill,” said Harvey absently.

“You’re still staring.”

“Sorry.”  Harvey averted his gaze, but seconds later it was drawn back to the figure on the bed.  “Are you well rested?”

“I am.  I was lying here thinking about what happened this morning.  And about everything you have done for me.”

“Anyone would have – ”

“No.  No one would have.  Nobody did.  Nobody but you.”

Another time, Harvey might have shrugged off such a declaration, or changed the subject.  Even in the shadowy light, he could see Mike gazing back at him with an intensity of emotion which held Harvey immobile, and rendered him speechless.

“Come here, Harvey.”

He licked his lips and swallowed thickly.  “What?”

“I want to thank you.”

“That’s not necessary.  I made a business decision.”

“Maybe.  Still, I wish to show my appreciation.”

“Mike …”  He had an inkling what Mike had in mind, and was not entirely sure why he was hesitating.

“Please don’t make me get up and chase you around the room.”

Perhaps Harvey meant to argue further with Mike, but his feet had other ideas.  Before he knew it, he was stalking toward the bed, shedding his coat on the way, not stopping until his thighs touched the side of the bed.  “Here I am.  What did you – ”

Mike was already in motion, pushing the bedclothes out of the way to sit on the edge of the mattress.  He was, as Harvey had guessed, entirely naked.  He unbuttoned Harvey’s trousers, while Harvey watched, transfixed.  When he reached for Harvey, he stopped him, holding each of Mike’s wrists in a confining grasp.

“What are you doing?” asked Harvey.

“Thanking you.”

“I told you, that’s not necessary.”

“I want to.  And you want it.  Don’t lie to me.  I know you want me.  I feel your hard prick pressed to my backside every morning when I wake up.  Why deny yourself?”

Why, indeed?  Taking Harvey’s hesitation as consent, Mike easily freed his hands, drew Harvey’s already stiffening prick from his trousers and held it between them, looking up at Harvey’s face.  Harvey groaned through gritted teeth.  His hands came up to rest on Mike’s bare shoulders.

“Then do it,” Harvey whispered.  “Let’s see if you’re as good as I remember.”

 Mike bent lower, and his tongue darted out to taste the tip of Harvey’s cock.  Harvey closed his eyes, and bit his lip at the sensation of Mike’s mouth closing over him.  His own harsh breathing sounded in his ears, almost but not quite obscuring the soft, damp smack of Mike’s lips and tongue, or his low grunts when he pushed down too far, too fast, or his quick, desperate breaths.

“That’s it,” Harvey urged him on.  “Just like that, sweetheart.”  He gasped and let out a low curse as Mike swallowed him to the root.  Harvey thrust his hands into Mike’s hair, cradling his skull.  “Ah, God.  I’m close.”  He could usually last much longer, but Mike’s mouth, and the deft touch of his hands, were driving him mad.

Mike eased back to take a breath, and then let his teeth scrape ever so lightly along Harvey’s rigid length.  Harvey bucked up and yelled before he could clamp his teeth together to contain the burst of sound.  As he began to come, Mike’s mouth closed over him again, and he must have swallowed every bit of Harvey’s spend, although Harvey knew not how he accomplished it, as he seemed to ride the waves of ecstasy forever.

******

“Lie down,” Mike insisted.

Harvey realized he was bent over Mike, clutching his shoulders for support, with his prick tucked away and his trousers buttoned up.  His legs shook, and his knees felt on the verge of buckling, so he took Mike’s advice and crawled onto the bed, flopping onto his back and closing his eyes.

“Merciful heavens,” he breathed, “you’ve nearly killed me with that mouth of yours.  I can only hope I recover in time for dinner.”

Mike chuckled, and the sound came from farther away than Harvey expected.  He opened one eye, and then the other, to discover Mike across the room, getting dressed.  “What are you doing?”

“Dressing for dinner.  I know we’re casual in this house, but I’m willing to wager that Donna draws the line at nudity.”

“We aren’t finished.”

“I thought I finished you off most excellently.”

Harvey sat up, grinning hugely.  “That you did.  Come over here so I can return the favor.”

Mike continued dressing.  “You’ll have plenty of time for that after dinner.”  He gave Harvey a sly grin.  “I found that jar of ointment you keep in the nightstand.”

“Did you now?  And were you planning to use it on me?”  As a rule, Harvey didn’t allow that, not with the rent boys who were his usual bedmates, and it surprised him to find himself entertaining the notion with Mike.

Mike blushed, and paid especial attention to tying his cravat.  “I believe I’ll leave that to you,” he muttered.

Harvey stood up and smoothed the wrinkles in his own clothing.  “Don’t feel you’re under any obligation with me,” he said carefully. 

Mike gave a nervous sounding cough and shuffled his feet.  “Nor you toward me.”  He looked straight at Harvey, blue eyes shining.  “Did that feel like an obligation, just now?”

Harvey walked slowly toward him, and when he stood in front of him, he reached out to cup Mike’s face with one hand.  “No,” he said gently, “it felt wonderful, and you are amazing.”  He held Mike’s gaze, until Mike gave one terse nod, communicating his understanding.  Harvey leaned in and gave him a tender kiss on the mouth.  “I would continue what we’ve started.  If you’re agreeable – and it sounds as if you are.”

“I am,” Mike murmured.

“We must be circumspect.  You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course.”  His mouth curved into a lop-sided grin.  “I may be crazy, but I’m not a fool.”

Harvey caressed his cheek.  “You’re neither.”  He turned away and reached for his coat.  “And it is now my job to prove it.  So, let’s go down to dinner, and I’ll introduce you to my new partner, who will be assisting me with your case.”

Mike’s smile stretched all the way across his face.  “Congratulations.  Is it Pearson & Specter now?”

“Hm.  It might have been, except Jessica made the mistake of calling heads instead of tails.”

As Harvey followed Mike out the door, he decided his delighted laughter was one of the loveliest things he had heard in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopsie! Didn't make it in June, but I was pretty close ... Next chapter before the end of July ... probably ... maybe ...

It would be nearly a month before a judge could hear the case regarding Edith Ross’ estate.  Mike spent that time resting, reading, educating himself on the law, and plowing his way through Donna’s dime novels.  He also took up a regimen of exercise, taking longer and longer walks around the neighborhood.  He became such a common sight, with his cane and top hat, that house maids, and cart drivers, and shopkeepers greeted him by name.

Winter edged into Spring, and the sun shone most days.  Mike felt as if he had newly returned from a long voyage to strange-seeming shores, to a home that had changed in a myriad of subtle and not so subtle ways.  Everywhere he looked, new construction was underway.  Immigrants in the rough clothing of their homelands crowded the sidewalks, plying trades, or searching for employment.  The press of people and closeness of the buildings frequently unnerved him, but his eager gaze and restless mind absorbed it all with fascinated wonder.

Harvey spent his days with Jessica, occupied with getting their firm furnished and open for business.  Mike visited their new offices at Harvey’s invitation.  They were located several blocks from Hardman & Dennis, in a section of downtown just a few years out from seedy.  They’d taken a corner on the first floor, with large windows letting in the sun.  The furniture, though not brand new, was well-cared for and looked expensive enough.  They had not yet hired any staff, but Harvey told Mike that would wait until after the hearing.  Gregory, he said, was anxious to put in his notice.

They had already acquired several clients, although not terribly lucrative ones.  That, said Harvey, would change once word spread that Harvey Specter had his own firm.  They’d flock to him in droves.

Jessica had nothing to add on the subject, not out loud, in any case.  Mike did not miss her flat, withdrawn gaze and pinched frown.  He understood that she knew what it was to be dismissed by the world for reasons that had nothing to do with her true worth. 

Preparations for the case against Logan Sanders proceeded apace.  Both Harvey and Jessica worked with Mike, peppering him with questions he might be asked on the stand, if they found it necessary to call him as a witness.  They didn’t think the case would require Mike’s testimony, but he lost a sizeable amount of sleep worrying about it just the same.

Additional sleep was lost due to Harvey’s frequent amorous attentions in bed.  This, Mike did not mind in the least.

Mike’s experience was limited.  He’d had fumbling encounters with classmates in hidden corners at the private academy to which his grandmother sent him.  They’d used hands or mouth to bring one another to completion, always listening with half an ear for approaching footsteps, the fear of which lent an air of excitement which was only partly inhibiting. 

And of course, once he had discovered _The Sink,_ he had been a frequent customer, making regular trips there until war came, and he enlisted in the army. 

Sharing a bed with one person for a full night, night after night – a person who had knowledge of all the things Mike had wondered about for so long, and was more than willing to teach him – seemed an indulgence for which Mike could never have hoped, an unexpected gift after all that he’d endured.  The rough slide of Harvey’s hands across his skin, the sweet pressure that came from having him fully inside of him, the frantic, ancient rhythm that took control of them as Harvey moved above him – Mike could not have wished for anything more perfect.  He knew it had to end eventually, but dismissed it from his mind, determined to enjoy the arrangement for as long as it lasted.

 

******

 

“You’re looking well this morning, Mike,” commented Donna at breakfast.  It was a week before Mike’s scheduled court date.

He swallowed his mouthful of food and glanced around the table, as if he’d been accused of something.  “I am?”  He thought for a moment, taking stock of himself, and nodded.  “I do feel stronger, now you mention it.”  His gaze darted toward Harvey, who was scrutinizing him over the delicate rim of his coffee cup.  Mike raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“I’m happy to hear it,” said Harvey, “because I’d like you to accompany me on a little outing.”

Mike’s foolish heart sped up at this pronouncement.  “Where are we going?”

“I’m acquainted with the dean at Columbia Law, and after an absurd amount of cajoling – and several very fine dinners at _Delmonico’s,_ he’s agreed to give us full access to their library.”

“But – ”  Mike flicked a glance at Jessica.  “Shouldn’t you take Jessica with you?”

Harvey cleared his throat, appearing discomfited.  “Someone needs to stay at our new offices.  Jessica and I discussed this, and she has agreed to fill that role today.”  Harvey gazed at Mike, brows drawn down, a complicated expression on his face.  “I could not fail to notice that you read faster than either of us, and you possess that uncanny ability to remember every bit of what you’ve read.  With all the other startup costs incurred by any new business venture, neither Jessica nor I can immediately afford the investment required to assemble an adequate library of our own.  So, for as long as you consent, I would like you to be our library.  If you’ll agree to it.”

Mike blushed at what felt to him like extravagant praise.  It didn’t take any particular skill, or effort to do what he did, he simply … did it.  Smiling shyly, he nodded.  “Of course I’ll do it.  How could I not, after everything you’ve done for me?”

Harvey waved his words aside and tossed his napkin on the table.  “Good.  My driver will meet us outside.  We’ll be inside the library as soon as their doors open.”  He stood, and reached out a hand to Mike.  “Shall we?”

Mike’s blush deepened at Harvey’s offer of assistance.  It seemed to him conspicuously intimate.  The rest of Donna’s boarders had to know, or at least suspect, the nature of his and Harvey’s relationship.  None of them had spoken an unkind or condemning word.  Still, it was unwise to advertise it too openly. 

Harvey’s hand was still extended, his expression questioning.  Finally, Mike grasped his hand and allowed Harvey to pull him to his feet.  Mike nodded, and mumbled his thanks.  He collected his cane, and top hat, and they were on their way.

 

******

 

Harvey had never seen anyone speed through a pile of law books the way Mike did.  As the morning wore on, it became distracting to watch, and strangely arousing.  Harvey longed to drag him deep into the stacks, bend him over a shelf between _Estate Inventories and Accounts,_ and _Inheritance Case of the Upper Hudson Valley,_ or some such publications, and fuck him with one hand over his mouth to stifle his shouts when he spent onto the dusty and cracked leather book covers _._

He didn't do any of that, because they were here as guests, and Harvey wished to be able to return as often as he needed in the future. 

It amazed him still, that after all the weeks they had spent together, his desire for Mike burned as hotly as it had in the beginning.  The situation was a novel one for him, and surprisingly, not unpleasant in the least.  Every day while he was away, his thoughts turned again and again to Mike.  In the evenings, as he endured dinner and conversation with the other boarders, he grew impatient for the hands on the clock to turn faster, so he could excuse himself, take Mike up to his room, and close the door on the rest of the world.

No lover of his had ever been sweeter, or more eager to please him.  When their two bodies were joined, and moving together in perfect harmony, he felt such bliss, and a deep satisfaction such as he'd never known with any of the street whores or random strangers who had shared his bed in the past.

If he could find some way to keep Mike with him longer, he would do it.  It seemed an impossibility.  In any case, they never spoke of the future, at least not past Mike’s trial.  They would win.  Of that, Harvey remained convinced.  And after that?  He assumed that with his fortune restored, Mike would take his place in society among the other wealthy elite, and in time he’d forget about an attorney named Harvey Specter, unless he decided to retain him for future legal work.

As the morning wore on into early afternoon, Harvey’s empty stomach began to grumble, and he noted Mike’s growing restlessness.  He nudged Mike’s foot under the table.

“Let’s take a break.  Are you ready for some lunch?”

Mike’s held up a finger as he continued to read, and then slammed the book shut.  “Yes, please.  For the first time in my life, I’m starting to feel as if my memory has limits.  I’m not sure how much more of this dense legalese I can absorb.”

“Too many hours reading Donna’s cheap stories have made you soft.”

Mike’s eyes lit with mischief as he grinned across the table at Harvey.  “Going soft,” he murmured, “is not my problem as of late.”

With a quick glance around the room to ensure that no one was listening to them, Harvey leaned closer.  “Keep saying things like that to me in public, and we’ll both regret the consequences.”  Mike’s resultant blush elicited a chuckle from Harvey.  “That settles it.  We need to find somewhere private, and quickly.”

Mike rose from his chair.  “Grammy’s house isn’t that far from here.  I never counted all the rooms, but there are an awful lot of them.”

Harvey had counseled Mike to stay away from the house until the court case was settled, but right now the logic of that advice escaped him.  “Let’s go,” he said, hurrying Mike out the door.

 

******

 

No one answered Harvey’s knock at the front door.  He exchanged a worried glance with Mike, and then used the key he’d obtained to unlock the door and proceed Mike inside.

“Hello?” he called, and heard his voice echo around the foyer.  “Trevor?  Jenny?  Norma?”

Just then, Jenny appeared, out of breath, wearing traveling clothes and frowning deeply.  “Oh, my heavens,” she panted, as she recognized them.  “Did you receive Trevor’s message already?”

“Message?” asked Mike.  “No, we’ve been occupied all morning.”

“He went to see you at the boarding house, to let you know that he must leave the city at once.”  She colored prettily, lowering her lashes.  “And I’m going with him.”

Harvey hung back, allowing Mike to question her.

“Why is he leaving?  Where are you going?  Can Norma look after the house on her own?”  This last, he directed to Harvey.

“Norma’s left,” said Jenny.  “She’s gone back to Boston, to live with her sister.  As for the rest of it, Trevor …”  She paused, biting her lip.  “A terribly persistent Pinkerton detective has been searching for him, and finally traced him to New York.”

“A detective?”  Mike’s brows furrowed in confusion.  “Whatever for?”

“I suppose it can’t hurt anything to tell you now.  He has a price on his head.  It’s all a misunderstanding, but until he manages to clear his name, he needs to keep moving.”

A scoffing laugh from Harvey.  “A misunderstanding?  Do you seriously believe that?”

Mike shushed him with a severe look and a restraining hand on his arm.  “Where are the two of you going?”

Jenny bit her lip again.  “Out west.”

“Oh.”  Mike frowned.  “How soon?”

“As soon as I finished packing, and Trevor delivers the news to you – which he left to do several hours ago.  I’m to meet him … well, never mind where.  The least people that know, the better.”

“I see.” 

“Please don’t be upset with us.  We’re getting married, and … oh, I almost forgot.  I was supposed to leave this here for you to find, but I suppose I can give it to you in person now.”  She thrust a slim packet of folded paper at Mike, who accepted it with a puzzled expression.

“What is this?”

“I don’t know, exactly.  You know I never learned to read.”

 Overcome with curiosity, Harvey gently extricated the papers from Mike’s weak grasp, and unfolded them.  The outer page contained a messily scrawled note from Trevor, which he read aloud.

_“Mike, if you ever find yourself missing my handsome face, make your way to Carson City.  Ask after me at the Silver Lady, and Stella will send word.  Also, Jenny and I did a thorough search of the house, and found the enclosed underneath the floorboards in your old bedroom.  Maybe Harvey can use it.”_

Harvey unfolded the yellowed, water-stained pages, and his eyes widened at what he saw.  “This is dated just after the war ended, after Mike left.  Who hid this there?  Mrs. Ross?  You?”

Jenny shook he head.  “It wasn’t me.  And going by the date, it wasn’t Mrs. Edith neither.  She took to her bed after Mike disappeared, and never really left it.”  Her eyes narrowed as she thought hard.  “I’m only guessing, understand, but it wouldn’t surprise me to find that Norma hid it in the floor.  She was always an odd old squirrel.”

“Harvey?” asked Mike.  “What is it?”

“It has yet to be authenticated, but it appears to be your grandmother’s missing last will and testament.”

“Let me see.”  Mike grabbed the document from Harvey’s fingers, so Harvey moved behind him, reading over his shoulder.  “It’s her writing.  I’m sure of it.”

“And she’s clearly left you the bulk of her estate, less small bequests to her loyal staff.”

“Me?” asked Jenny.

“You and Norma.”

“How small?”

“One year’s wages, plus any one item in the house that you wish to claim as your own.”

“Gracious, I wouldn’t know what to choose.  Oh, no, wait.  There was this shawl of your grandmother’s I took a real shine to.”

“Of course,” said Mike, seeming stunned by this development.  “It’s yours.  Take it.”  He looked at Harvey.  “What about Norma?”

“We only need to locate her in Boston.  That should not prove especially difficult.  Her testimony will be required to authenticate the will, if she is the one who hid it.”

“Does this mean I’ve won my case?”  Mike appeared cautiously hopeful.

Harvey hated to crush Mike’s hopes, but felt compelled to answer him honestly.  “For almost anyone else, this case would already be won.  It might never have gone forward in the first place.  You are clearly the stronger – and really, the only legitimate – claimant to your grandmother’s estate.  I was never worried about that.  It is the other arguments they intend to bring in that are the true source of concern.”  He did not wish to bring up the subject of Mike’s competence in front of Jenny, unsure of how much she knew.

“So, her will is essentially useless.  Is that what you’re saying?”

“I wish I could tell you differently.  Quite frankly, if your case hinged on the will, and it alone, we would be presented with a different set of problems.  We might then be obliged to prove that Edith Ross was in her right mind when she signed this.”

“Jenny and Norma could testify –”

“Jenny is leaving on the next train west, and Norma is an elderly woman herself.  Daniel could easily undermine her testimony.  Hell, I could think of a dozen ways to discredit her, without taxing myself in the least.”  He watched Mike’s mood plummet, and determined that it was time for them to leave.  “We can talk about this more at home, Mike.”  Speaking directly to Jenny, he added, “When you leave, make sure no one is following you.  I’ll hire a couple of men to watch the house.  They should be here in a couple of hours.”

“I’ll be gone by then.”

“Good.  Have a safe journey.”

Mike stepped closer, and gave her a stiff hug.  “Tell Trevor to watch for a message from me.”

“I will.”  She sniffed.  “Take care of yourself, Mike.  You and Edith, you were like family to me.”

Mike nodded, and seemed to be holding back tears of his own.  Harvey touched his arm, and they took their leave.

 

******

 

The week proceeded slowly, and then suddenly sped up, the last several days seeming to fly by, until before Mike knew it, it was the day before the trial.  Trevor and Jenny were gone.  Two armed men watched the empty house.  A letter had been sent to Norma in Boston, but no reply had yet come back.

At dinner that night, the other boarders wished Mike good luck, patting him on the back, and raising their wineglasses in a series of increasingly maudlin toasts.  Mike made his excuses early, and went up to bed.  Harvey joined him half an hour later, finding Mike still wide awake under the covers.

“It’s going to be fine,” Harvey assured him, as he’d done every day for the past month.  As he spoke, he undressed.  “We’re going to win your case, and then the only thing you’ll need to worry about is what to do with all that money.”

“I wish I had your confidence.”

“My confidence is the product of years of success at winning cases.”

“If they try to send me back to the asylum, I won’t go quietly.”

“Understood.”

“Maybe I’ll head west and team up with Trevor.”

Naked, Harvey slid into bed next to Mike.  “You think you’re outlaw material, eh?”  He placed his palm on Mike’s stomach and kissed the side of his neck.

“M-maybe.  Ah …”  Mike shivered.  Harvey’s touch never failed to excite him.  “What was I saying?  I can’t think when you do that.”

“So, stop trying to think.  We can talk later, about whatever you like.”  His lips moved from Mike’s neck to his mouth, where he kissed him quiet.

Mike’s stiffening member pushed against Harvey’s.  He almost laughed at the memory of their first time together (not counting that one encounter all those years ago), and his fear that his body might have lost the ability to know pleasure.  These days, just a look from Harvey, or the sound of his voice could quicken Mike’s pulse, and send the blood rushing downwards. 

“Fuck me,” he whispered against Harvey’s mouth. 

In response, Harvey growled low in his throat, and wrapped his arms around Mike’s middle, holding him close.  “Beg me,” he murmured, lips and breath tickling Mike’s ear.  He grabbed Mike’s prick and rubbed his thumb over the head. 

Mike squirmed under his touch, trying to get closer.  “Please,” he moaned, arching his back, and thrusting his hips shamelessly. 

“Please, what?”

They’d played this game before.  Mike laughed breathlessly.  “Please put your big prick inside me and fuck me until I scream the house down.”

Harvey’s expression grew serious, and his touch gentled.  “I’ll fuck you, but you must learn to be quieter about it.”  He kissed Mike, and stroked him lightly, teasing.  “Understood?”

Mike nodded up at him, lips pressed together, but still smiling.  They both knew all too well the danger in which they placed themselves, simply by lying together this way.  The thought seemed to make Harvey angry, which he communicated to Mike in a kiss gone hard and just shy of brutal.  This only excited Mike more.  Harvey gripped his hips, firmly enough to leave bruises.

Mike yanked his head away, breathing rapidly, and reached for the jar of ointment on the nightstand.  “Hurry,” he gasped, thrusting the jar at Harvey.  He rolled onto his stomach and got onto his hands and knees, presenting himself to Harvey.

“The offer stands,” said Harvey, “to reverse roles and have you enter me for a change.”

“I will gladly take you up on that, but not today.  Not now.  Now, I need you inside me.”  He looked over his shoulder and met Harvey’s eyes.  “Please.”

A terse nod from Harvey.  Mike rested his head on his arms and waited for the first touch of Harvey’s fingers.  They were cold with the ointment, testing his entrance and leaving a sticky smear.  Then one finger breached him, and Mike pushed back onto it, savoring the delicious fullness, which was only a taste of what was to follow.

“How’s that, sweetheart?” breathed Harvey in his ear.  “Is that what you need?”  He pumped his finger in and out.

Mike squealed, grasping a pillow, and pressing it against his mouth.  He nodded quickly, and uncovered his mouth long enough to rasp, “Yes.  Fucking hell … yessssss.”

They’d done this enough by now that Mike didn’t require a great deal of preparation.  Harvey always gave it to him though, opening him up, and stretching him with gentleness and patience.  Tonight, Mike didn’t want patience.  He wanted fast, and hard, and _now_.

“Do it,” he bit out.  “Just … get inside me and fuck me – ”  His plea ended on another squeal as Harvey touched that amazing sweet spot inside him.   “Fucking … _fuck.”_ He was lost.  Forgetting himself, he lifted his head and screamed Harvey’s name as white-hot bliss poured through him, and he started to come.  When Harvey’s hand covered his mouth to quieten him, his pleasure only intensified.  Shaking as if he would break apart, he came and came, grunting against Harvey’s palm.

When he was finished, he collapsed onto the bed, distantly ashamed by his too-quick release.  He heard himself mumbling, and realized he was telling Harvey he was sorry, repeating the same thing again and again.

Harvey rolled him onto his back, straddling him, and stroked the hair from his sweaty brow.  “Sorry?  For what.”

“Too … soon,” Mike panted.  “I came too soon.”

“You were beautiful.  I almost came just from watching you.”

“Will you still fuck me?”

“Of course.”  Laughter threaded Harvey’s voice.

Mike tried to turn over again, but Harvey stopped him.

“No.  Not like that.  This time, I want to watch your face.”  He kissed Mike’s temple.  “Let’s see if I can make you come again.”

“I can’t.”

“Hush.”  He kissed Mike’s mouth, and his chin, and moved down to his chest, kissing and tonguing each nipple, using his teeth to scrape lightly against each hardened nub before pinching them, harder, and harder still, until Mike was moaning and arching up into his touch.  Harvey continued down his body, stopping at each sensitive place he had discovered over the past weeks, licking, kissing, nipping, dragging his fingernails across Mike’s heated flesh.

By the time he reached Mike’s prick, it had, to Mike’s amazement, stirred back to life, beginning to plump and harden once more.

“You’re going to kill me,” he gasped, and was answered by Harvey’s filthy chuckle.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.  Who would I fuck tomorrow night, if I killed you tonight?”

The thought of Harvey fucking anyone else – ever – was not something Mike wished to dwell on.  His brow wrinkled at the thought.

“Hey.  Where did you go, sweetheart?”  Face to face again, Harvey brushed a hand over Mike’s forehead.  “There’s just you and me here, all right?”

Mike forced a smile to his face, nodding.  “You and me.  You going to fuck me, or not?”

By way of an answer, Harvey cupped his hands under Mike’s bottom, lifting him off the mattress, and draped his legs over his shoulders.  The position felt strange to Mike, like he was upside down, and nearly bent in half.  Then he felt the head of Harvey’s prick at his entrance, pushing in, inch by careful inch, and suddenly it didn’t feel strange at all.  It felt incredible, and perfect, and he never wanted it to end. 

His eyes drifted shut, and immediately Harvey’s breath wafted against his face as he leaned over him.  “Keep them open,” Harvey whispered. 

Mike blinked his eyes open to find Harvey’s face inches from his, gazing at him with a dark intensity that left Mike breathless.

“That’s it,” said Harvey, and he started to move.  With one hand on the wall behind Mike, and the other hand on his hip, he pulled out, almost to the tip, and slowly, slowly drove back in.  After holding for several seconds, he repeated the motion, eyes only leaving Mike’s face briefly to examine their joining.  “God, you feel incredible.  The way you grip me …”

He increased his speed incrementally, setting up a steady rhythm, pumping into Mike with greater and greater force. 

“Is that good?” asked Harvey.  “Is that how you like it?”

“Y-yes.  I like it all the ways.  Every way, and any way.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

Did Harvey really not know?  “It feels wonderful.  Like this is what I was born for.  If I could make it go on forever, I would.”

Harvey shifted his angle, hitting that amazing, sweet spot, over and over again.  Mike gasped, trying to meet Harvey’s thrusts with his own, but he was bent in half, unable to move, unable to do much besides take what Harvey gave him.

Harvey paused and reached for Mike’s prick, stroking him to full hardness.  Then he shifted Mike’s legs from his shoulders, and settled them over his hips.  “Touch yourself,” he ordered.  “I want to watch your face when you come apart for me again.”

Obediently, Mike took himself in hand while Harvey picked up the rhythm again.  Mike had thought he wanted hard and fast, but this … this was perfect, this steady, even, relentless rocking, in and out.  Harvey was taking his time, making it last, wringing every last drop of pleasure out of the moment.

When he ordered Mike to come, he cried out, softly this time, shaking and shuddering.  Harvey smiled down at him, murmuring, “Gorgeous.”

Now Harvey picked up his pace, race to his own finish line.  The bed shook and rocked, brass frame knocking against the wall.  Sweat dampened Harvey’s face and chest.  His hips snapped forward and back, stroking powerfully.  Mike watched, mesmerized, as his jaw tightened, his mouth came open in a harsh gasp, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pausing, and holding deep inside Mike.  He plunged once more, shuddered, and let out one hoarse shout, quickly cut off, before shivering and convulsing, pulsing hotly inside of Mike, holding him close with his face pressed to Mike’s shoulder.

They both drifted for a time, still joined, until finally Harvey lifted his head, gave a regretful sigh, and pulled out, causing them both to shiver.  They cleaned each other off, and then resettled in the bed, Mike’s head on Harvey’s chest, Harvey’s arms around him. 

It felt to Mike as if something should be said – about tomorrow, and the trial, and how neither of them knew if this would be their last night together.  The words stuck in his throat, and would have been wholly inadequate to what he was feeling, even if he’d managed to get them out.  All he could do was hold tight to Harvey, and hope for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it turns out that researching historical trial procedures is ridiculously frustrating. I'm pretty sure discovery was not a thing always required by the courts (i.e. providing one's opponent with copies of documents, and a witness list, or deposing said witnesses, prior to trial). When did it become a thing? *shrug* No idea. I've assumed for this story, that it was not yet required, but that the rest of the court procedure was much the same. Another thing I couldn't find was a description or depiction of a courtroom circa 1868, so I made that up too. Because that's what I do – make stuff up. If any readers know differently, and care to enlighten me, have at it.
> 
> Oh, and it’s a trial, so this chapter is mostly just talking. The trial went on longer than I anticipated, so I’ve divided it into two chapters.

The first day of trial in the case of _Sanders v. Ross_ arrived while the city was enjoying an unusually warm stretch of Spring weather.  Still, the unheated courtroom retained enough of a chill that most of the handful of spectators kept their overcoats on.

Boss Tweed's lavish new courthouse, designed in the Italianate style, with four Corinthian columns at the front entrance, was still years away from completion, leaving the courts to make do with less than adequate rented spaces.  Today, despite the lack of heat, the shabby furnishings, and what looked suspiciously like rat droppings in the far corners of the room, Harvey could only be thankful that Mike hadn't had to walk up the wide steps and past those columns, which gave the building an appearance too close to that of the asylum in Utica for Harvey’s (and likely, Mike's) comfort.

As it was, he could both see and feel – and hear – Mike's nervous agitation as he sat next to him at the defendants' table, awaiting the appearance of Judge Dayton.  He'd caught Mike once already this morning, muttering a piece of verse, or prose, he wasn't sure which, and had silenced him with an anchoring hand on his shoulder.  It had been weeks since Mike had resorted to his old habit, and although it didn't surprise Harvey that he should fall back into it due to the particular stresses of the day, he did worry about what effect witnessing it might have on the judge's eventual decision.

He had opted for a bench trial, not having confidence in a jury's ability to see past their probable prejudices toward Mike.  He guessed that Daniel would focus on Mike's years in the asylum, and attempt to paint him as unfit, not only to inherit his grandmother's wealth, but to even live in society.  That's what Harvey would have done if he'd been in Daniel's shoes.  The realization made him more than a little uncomfortable. 

"Harvey."

His attention was drawn back to Mike, who was staring down at his own folded hands, almost in an attitude of prayer. 

"The trial should be starting any minute now," Harvey answered, trying to sound reassuring.

"I know.  Before it does, I want you to promise me something."

Harvey lifted one eyebrow.

Mike shot a glance at him, and went back to studying his hands.  "If the verdict doesn't go my way –"

"It will."

"But if it doesn't, I want you to cause a distraction."

"Such as?"

"Something big.  Fake a fainting spell, or heart ailment.  Punch Hardman.  Kiss the bailiff.  Anything, so that everyone's attention is on you."

Harvey struggled not to laugh at Mike's outrageous suggestions.  "Why?  So you'll have company back at the asylum?"  He regretted the attempt at levity almost as soon as the words left his mouth.

Mike remained deadly serious.  "No.  So that attention will be shifted from me, and I can escape from here.  No one is taking me back to the asylum."

Finally giving into his urge, Harvey placed a hand on top of Mike's.  "The only promise I'll make is that it won't come to that."  When Mike didn't reply, he gave his hand a squeeze, and withdrew.  "Trust me.  I'm very good at what I do."

That brought a ghost of a smile to Mike's face.  "Yes," he murmured.  "You've proven that repeatedly.  Three times last night, if I recall correctly."

Harvey's response might have gotten them both into trouble, so it was just as well that the bailiff chose that moment to announce the arrival of the judge.  Harvey and Mike rose to their feet, along with Daniel and Logan at the plaintiff's table, and the spectators behind them.  The judge took his seat at the table facing the courtroom, and accepted a sheet of paper which the bailiff handed him.  After he'd perused the sheet, which Harvey knew to be a summary of the case being brought against Mike, he tapped the gavel smartly one time, and cleared his throat.

"I guess we all know why we're here.  Any motions before we get this thing rolling?"  He waited, but nobody spoke.  "No?  Well, then, counsel for the plaintiff, let's hear your opening statement."

Daniel Hardman stood and walked forward to stand in front of the judge.  Harvey noticed Logan directing an ugly smirk at Mike, and leaned back in his chair, effectively blocking Logan and Mike's views of one another. 

 “I’ll keep it short, and to the point,” Daniel began.  “My client, Logan Sanders, is asking the court to name him sole heir and beneficiary to the estate of Edith Ross.  Although the defendant, Michael Ross, is the deceased’s grandson, I intend to show that he is not competent to administer such a large estate, and that he belongs back inside the Utica Insane Asylum, from which he was unlawfully liberated by Mr. Specter.”

Harvey heard a low, distressed sound from Mike, and laid a hand briefly on his arm.  “Hold yourself together,” he whispered.

Daniel’s speech drew to a close.   He didn’t have a jury to perform for, and Judge Dayton did not tolerate theatrics in his courtroom, so his opening argument was mercifully and uncharacteristically short.  “I’ll have more to say in my closing arguments,” he finished, gave a nod to the judge, sneered at Harvey, and retook his seat.

The judge turned to Harvey.  “Your turn, Mr. Specter.”

Harvey stood up, and took a moment to collect his thoughts.  He kept his remarks as brief as Daniel’s.  “For now, I’ll just point out that Mike Ross is the only legitimate heir to Edith Ross.  Logan Sanders is no relation of hers, and I will show that he has made it his life’s work to rob Mr. Ross of everything he has, starting with his property in the north, continuing with his freedom, and ending with his rightful inheritance.  Further, it is Mr. Sanders who should be locked up, not in a lunatic asylum, but in prison.”  He sat down.

The judge lifted his eyebrows, and scratched thoughtfully at his bearded chin.  “My compliments and appreciation to the both of you, for getting straight to the point.  Mr. Hardman, you got any witnesses?”

“I do, your honor.  First off, I would like to call Logan Sanders to the stand.”

Retaining his odious smirk, Sanders stood, laid his hand on the bible offered by the bailiff, swore to tell the truth, and took his seat in a wooden, straight-backed chair to the side of the judge's table. 

“Mr. Sanders,” said Daniel, “please tell the court your connection to the defendant, Mr. Ross.”

“He is my first cousin.  After my parents died, I came to live with him at Rosswood.”

“What is Rosswood?”

“It was – is – a property, more of an estate actually, located upstate, once owned by Mr. Ross’ parents, and passed on to their son.”

“Was the defendant a competent manager of the estate?”

“He was absent for fully ten years, leaving me to take care of the day to day running of the place.  I kept everything in excellent repair, and added significantly to its value.”

“What were the circumstances of Mr. Ross’ return to Rosswood?”

“When he returned from war, and subsequently turned twenty-one, he gained full ownership of the place.  With no advance warning, he arrived to claim his rights.  I welcomed him home with a lavish dinner, which he repaid in the most despicable way imaginable.”

“What do you mean?”

Logan shifted in his seat, appearing uncomfortable.  Harvey saw if for the act it was.

“I mean – ”  Logan looked beseechingly at the judge.  “I’d rather not say it out loud.”

Judge Dayton sighed audibly.  “You’re under oath, young man.  You have no choice but to tell the full truth.”

“He … he made improper advances toward me.”

The judge’s eyebrows lifted.  “I believe I know what you’re implying, but you need to go on record with more than an implication.”

“Mr. Ross,” said Logan, “my cousin, let it be known that he wished to bed me.”

Dead silence fell in the courtroom, followed by gasps from the gallery, and a buzz of excited conversation.  Next to Harvey, Mike was a statue, rigid, pale, not even breathing so far as he could tell.

The judge rapped his gavel repeatedly.  “Quiet down.  All of you.  Behave yourselves, or I’ll toss the whole damned lot of you out on the sidewalk.”  When silence prevailed once more, he nodded at Daniel.  “Keep going.”

“After Mr. Ross made these … desires … known to you, what did you do next?”

“Well, I protested, of course.  Strenuously.  I begged him to proceed more moderately with the strong port he was drinking, but he seemed not to hear me.  He became quite agitated.  When he physically attacked me, I was forced to call the servants, and have him subdued.”

“Did you send for the constable?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I wished to save him – and the family – the embarrassment of having his moral failings exposed to society.”

“Admirable,” said Daniel.

It was a struggle for Harvey to keep his expression impassive.

“What action did you take next?”

“With the help of the servants, I fed him a strong dose of laudanum, and had him transported to the lunatic asylum in Utica, where he was subsequently committed.”

“Just like that?”  Daniel feigned astonishment.  “Are you qualified, then, to determine whether a man is insane?”

“Of course not, but Mike – er, Mr. Ross – was examined by two doctors, as well as by the superintendent of the asylum.  Not only did they all agree to his condition, they concurred, to a man, that he should receive the newest and most advanced forms of treatment available.  Had he not been released prematurely, he would even now be further along the road to a cure.”

“Tragic,” said Daniel, with an exaggerated frown.  “And why are you seeking control of the Ross fortune?”

To Harvey, it seemed an absurd question, but he understood Daniel’s strategy in asking it.  It would give their side the opportunity to frame the response in a manner meant to put Logan in a favorable light.

Logan appeared to think hard about it.  Harvey knew that Daniel would have coached him extensively on what to say, down to expression and pacing.  Finally, Logan sighed.  “Most of the people in this room probably believe my motive is simple greed.  Although it is true that the money and properties which make up Grandmama’s estate would provide a comfortable – no, a lavish – living for the remainder of my days on this earth, it is not for that reason alone that I have pursued this lawsuit.”

“ _Grandmama?”_ whispered Mike, harsh and disbelieving. 

Harvey wanted to touch him, to pat or squeeze his arm, but he was all too conscious of how such a gesture might be perceived, so he settled for a terse, “Patience,” spoken from the side of his mouth.

Meanwhile, Logan had launched into a lengthy explanation of his supposedly altruistic motives for bringing the lawsuit.   “There’s no telling what harm my cousin could do to himself, or to others, if he gained unfettered control of that much wealth.  The disease on display that night at Rosswood might have been transmitted to society in general.  Can you imagine the number of lives he might have infected with his immoral delusions?  If the money comes to me, I can contribute to society positively, in ways both tangible and intangible.”

“Tangible how?” asked Daniel.

“With generous donations to asylums such as the one in Utica, and here in the city.  From what I hear, their course of moral therapy is working wonders.  Countless troubled souls like my dear cousin might be saved.”

“Highly commendable.  I think we can all agree – ”  Daniel indicated the judge, and the courtroom at large “ – that this young man’s heart is in the right place.  Thank you, Mr. Sanders.  That is all.”

Before Daniel had even retaken his seat, Harvey was on his feet, stalking toward Logan.  “Mr. Sanders, what was the defendant’s condition when he arrived at Rosswood?”

Logan frowned, appearing momentarily thrown off balance.  “I’m not sure I understand your question.”

“Really?  It seems straightforward enough.  I’d like you to think back to the day he arrived, and describe for the court his physical condition.”

“Objection,” said Daniel.  “I fail to see the significance of this line of questioning.”

“Then be quiet,” Harvey replied, “and learn something.”

“You honor – ”

“Let’s see where this is leading,” said the judge.

“Thank you, your honor.  Mr. Sanders?  I believe I asked you a question.”

Logan threw up his hands.  “I don’t know.  He seemed worn out from the trip there.  He, uh, he was walking with a cane, I remember that.  Some injury he got in the war.  Limped real bad.”

“And yet, you say he physically attacked you.”

“I did.  He did.”

“And you had to call servants – plural – to subdue him.

“Yes.  That’s what I said.”

Had there been a jury present, this is the moment when Harvey would have walked over to stand near them, his incredulity clearly on display.  He only had the judge to play to, so he made the most of it. 

“You seem to be a reasonably fit young man.”

“I like to think so.”

“And yet you found yourself unable to defend against a man so injured he could barely walk, and who was, on top of that, wearied from a full day of travel?  A man who, if we are to believe your testimony, was also far gone in drink?”

Logan looked to the judge, and to Daniel.  Receiving no help from either quarter, he settled for sullen silence.

“Nothing to say?  Shall we take your silence as implied agreement?  You weren’t man enough to fend off such a physically inferior opponent?”

Thus goaded, Logan lashed out, as Harvey had known he would.  “I could take that pathetic weakling in a fight any day of the week.  By God, he looked as if the slightest breeze could knock him over.  How the North won the war, I’ll never know, if Mike Ross was typical of their ranks.  The South is full of men more virile and accomplished than my cousin.”

“Objection,” wailed Daniel.

Judge Dayton let out an amused snort.  “He’s your client.”

“Eh.  Don’t remind me.”

“Hey!”  Logan sprang to his feet, glaring at Daniel.  “You can’t talk about me like that.”

“I’ll stop, if you’ll stop making an ass of yourself up there.”

“Gentlemen,” said the judge, “let’s keep it civil, shall we?  Can we all stipulate to the fact that Mr. Ross was in a weakened state at Rosswood, and that Mr. Sanders is a despicable Southern sympathizer?”

Logan glowered at judge, but did not deny the accusation.  After a moment’s hesitation, Daniel rolled his eyes and sat back down.  The judge gestured for Harvey to continue the questioning.    

He hid his amusement at the apparent rift between client and attorney, and resumed his planned cross-examination.  “You’ve testified that you wished to save your cousin.”

“Yes.  So?”

“So, if I’m understanding correctly, you believe that with enough of this … ‘moral therapy’ was it? – that an inmate of the asylum will, in time be cured.  Is that what you’re saying?”

Logan gave a nervous laugh.  “I’m no expert, of course, but yes, that is the goal as I understand it.”

“And should Mr. Ross be forced to return, and is eventually cured, what then?  I assume you will return his fortune to him.  Won’t you?”

Daniel jumped to his feet.  “Objection.”

“On what grounds?” asked Judge Dayton.

“He – he’s putting words in his mouth.”

“All I heard was a question.  I’d like to hear the answer.”

Logan’s mouth took on an ugly curve.  “If the court rules in my favor, I’ll keep what is rightfully mine.”

Harvey widened his eyes, making himself the picture of astonishment.  “So, all of that talk of altruistic intentions was a lie?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, which is it?  Were you lying then, or are you lying now?”

Logan shifted in his chair, scowling deeply.  He turned to the judge.  “How the devil does he expect me to answer that?”

Judge Dayton smiled thinly.  “Your confusion speaks volumes, you man.  Kindly move it along, Mr. Specter.  Do you have any more questions for this witness?”

“Just one or two.  Mr. Sanders, let’s talk a bit about your time at Rosswood, shall we?  You claim that you managed the property in my client’s absence.  Would you give the court some examples of your duties?”

“I oversaw the small industries established by my aunt and uncle."

"Such as?"

"The apiary.  A thriving orchard.  A glassblowing studio.  Candle-making.  Among other concerns."

"My goodness, you must be quite the versatile manager, to oversee such diverse industries."

Logan shrugged, giving Harvey a smug smile.

"Tell me, what is the most effective way to protect yourself from bee stings?"

"I'm – what?  What does that have to do with anything?"

"You've testified that you managed the apiary at Rosswood.  One would assume you possessed this basic knowledge."

Logan's face turned a dull shade of red.

"Why, Mr. Sanders," said Harvey, "I'll wager you don't actually know what an apiary is?  Do you?"

"Of course I do.  It's where they harvest honey from the ground."

The courtroom erupted in guffaws.  Judge Dayton let it go on for a bit before banging his gavel one time.  "Order, people."  His voice was threaded with laughter.

Harvey went in for the kill.  "And did you suppose that they harvested candles from the rocks, and glassware from the river?  You didn't manage anything at Rosswood, did you, besides your own growing accounts?  In fact, isn't it true that you stole and sold off every item of value belonging to your cousin, to pay for your rather disastrous gambling habit?"

Daniel was up on his feet.  "Objection!"

"Grounds?" asked the judge, twirling his gavel with one hand.

"He … he … is being rude to my client."

"He's allowed.  Is your client going to answer the questions?"

"My client pleads the fifth on … on all of that."

"I thought as much.  Mr. Specter?  Any other questions for this witness?"

Harvey held onto his temper with difficulty.  He'd been close to getting Logan to admit to everything, he'd felt it.  If he goaded him a bit more … but, no.  That would only anger the judge.  He had some witnesses to call later, who would prove his case.  "No," he finally said.  "I'm done with him."

When Harvey took his seat, Mike gave him a worried look, which was understandable.  Harvey hadn't shared the entirety of his strategy with Mike.  That felt like a mistake now, but he would have to wait until later to fill him in. 

Daniel announced his next witness.  "I call Josiah Brooks, Superintendent of Utica Lunatic Asylum."

Next to Harvey, Mike stiffened, and all remaining color drained from his face.  Harvey didn't actually believe Mike would make a dash for freedom, but just in case, he grabbed his arm and held tight.  "Don't worry," he whispered.  "You're safe."

Judging by the expression on Mike's face, he disbelieved Harvey's assertion.  He remained seated, however, and after a moment, Harvey removed his hand.

Daniel began his questioning.  "Superintendent Brooks, thank you for consenting to make the trip here from Utica.  Please tell the court how you know the defendant."

"He was an inmate at the asylum in Utica, which I oversee."

"The lunatic asylum."

"That is correct."

"How long did he reside there?"

"Nearly three years."

"How would you characterize his condition?"

Brooks frowned.  "A sad case.  The young man was traumatized by the recent war.  Injured.  Combative.  Beset with delusions."

"What sort of delusions?"

"He was forever holding conversations with people who were not there."

"I have only a layman's understanding of this sort of thing, but am I correct in assuming that this was not normal?"

A wry chuckle from Brooks.  "Correct.  Not normal, but observed often enough in those of unsound mind."

"Is there a cure?”

“There are various courses of treatment which oftentimes result in marked improvements in the patient.”

“Did you employ these methods on Mr. Ross?”

“My staff did, under my direction.”

“What were his prospects for recovery?”

Brooks sighed, affecting a look of sadness.  “His was a difficult case.  One of the most difficult I’ve encountered.  In the beginning of his residence at the asylum, he was granted limited freedom of movement around the grounds, as is customary with many of the inmates.  However, he kept running off, trying to escape, and we were forced as a result to confine him to the main building.”

“Would you say he was unlikely to recover to the degree necessary to be returned to society?”

“We don’t like to give up on any of the inmates.  But yes, I would say he was one of the least likely to ever improve.”

“Can you share with the court the circumstances of his release?”

“That man there – ”  Here, Brooks paused and pointed a finger at Harvey.  “Mr. Specter.  He arrived one evening, just before supper time, and presented me with an official looking piece of paper, signed by some know-it-all judge in New York City – no offense intended, your honor – who had never even met Mr. Ross.  He threatened and bullied both myself and my staff, and – against my most strenuous objections – removed Michael from the asylum.”

“Shocking,” murmured Daniel.

“Objection,” said Harvey.  “Opposing counsel is inserting his own opinion.”

“Sustained.  Watch yourself, Mr. Hardman.”

“My apologies.  No further questions for this witness.”

Harvey stood slowly, running over in his mind all the possible approaches he could take to discredit Brooks’ testimony.   “Superintendent Brooks,” he began, “tell us more about the ‘moral therapy’ used to treat Mr. Ross.”

“We tried involving him in work on the farm and orchards on the grounds, but as I said before, he only used the opportunity to attempt escape.  As a result of his confinement indoors, we were forced to resort to other methods.”

“Please describe those methods.”

“Gladly.  We are innovators in the field, and I’m proud of what we’ve achieved with our therapy devices.  Due to Mike’s tendency to converse with imaginary people, and the need to calm his mania, he spent his days in what we call our tranquilizer chair.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“Well, it’s a chair, basically, with specific modifications.  The inmate is securely restrained with leather straps.  If necessary, a gag is inserted in the mouth.”

“Was it necessary in the case of Mr. Ross?”

“Obviously.  He wouldn’t be quiet otherwise.”

“I see.  Please describe for the court the main feature of the chair.”

“A wooden block, with a cut-out in the center to accommodate the head, is placed over the inmate, covering their head, blocking their vision, and leaving them enclosed in darkness and quiet.”

Harvey glanced at the judge, and then at the audience, and saw identical looks of shock and distaste.  “How many hours a day, on average, would you say my client was subjected to this … ‘ _moral_ therapy.’”

“Oh, perhaps eight to twelve hours.  Sometimes he had a break midday for the purpose of bathing.”

“In a cold bath, correct?”

“Well, yes.  With ice, if available.  It shocks the system, you see.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Brooks frowned, growing annoyed.  “It’s practically pointless to attempt an explanation to a layman.”

“I would ask that you try.  Perhaps confine yourself to short, simple words.”

A noisy sigh.  “Fine.  An inmate such as Michael has been conditioned by his illness to behave and react to the world in a certain way.  He needs a sudden shock, something to wake him up and realign his thinking.  Not unlike a quick, hard slap to the face, which might be employed to calm an hysteric.”

“Were you in the habit of hitting him, then?”

“No!  It’s merely an analogy.”

Harvey moved restlessly, pacing the length of the courtroom between the judge and the lawyers’ tables.  “Tell the court about your Utica crib.”

“Ah.  With pleasure.  It’s one of my proudest achievements.  As the name implies, we were instrumental in developing it.  The purpose of the crib is similar to that of the tranquilizer chair, only it is used at night.  The inmate is placed inside the crib, a barred door is closed and locked over them, and they spend the night thusly, safe and secure, unable to cause harm to themselves or others.”

“How often did Mr. Ross spend the night inside this device?”

“Every night.”

The judge chose this moment to interject, as was his right.  “Hold on, Mr. Brooks.  You’re telling us that Mr. Ross was tied to a chair all day, and locked in a cage at night?”

“Not just Michael.  And I resent your characterization of the crib as a cage.  It is no such thing.”

“It has a door with bars.  It locks.  Sure sounds like a cage to me.  Or a coffin.”

“Nevertheless …”

The judge held up a hand.  “I suppose we’ll agree to disagree.  Mr. Specter?”

Pleased by the judge’s apparent disgust at the methods employed by Brooks, he moved on to his final line of questioning.  “How do the use of drugs figure into your treatment plans?”

“Drugs?”

“Laudanum.  Opium.  Patent medicines.”

“Oh, well as to that, we have found that laudanum can be an effective calming agent for some of the inmates.”

“What about Mr. Ross?”

“Yes, he was one of those inmates.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that after I rescued him – ”

“Rescued?  Oh, really, Mr. Specter.  That’s a touch dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Would it surprise you to learn that Mr. Ross had become so dependent on laudanum while at your asylum, that he came close to perishing when he bravely chose to give it up?”

“Nonsense.  Laudanum is not habit-forming, as any reputable physician will tell you.  What you likely witnessed was either an illness unrelated to the medicine, or the theatrics of a practiced deceiver.”

“Deceiver?  Is that what you truly believe?  And consider you answer carefully.  If you are now saying Mr. Ross was only playing a part, a multitude of new questions come to mind, the most notable of which is ‘why?’”

“You’re putting words in my mouth.  I didn’t say his delusions were a deception.  I was only suggesting that after you removed him from my care, he may have sought to elicit pity from you.  Whatever the case, it seems to have worked.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but how could any person with a functioning heart in their chest not feel pity upon hearing the barbarous treatment dealt out to Mr. Ross, and any other person unfortunate enough to fall into your hands?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained,” the judge said, voice mild.  “Save it for you closing remarks, if you please.  For now, do you have any further questions for this witness?”

Aside from grabbing the man by his throat and shaking him, Harvey had no further use for him.  “No, your honor.”

“All right, then.  Mr. Hardman?  We else do you have for us?”

Hardman stood, appearing chagrined.  “Unfortunately, any other witnesses I intended to call could not be located.  Therefore, we rest.”

“Mr. Specter, are you ready to call your first witness?”

Harvey had assumed that the questioning of Daniel’s witnesses would last longer, taking them at least until lunchtime.  Harvey only had four witnesses to call.  Perhaps the could wrap this up before lunch, and they would present their closing arguments this afternoon.  He glanced over the faces in the audience, and spotted his first witness waiting attentively.

Mike, he observed, had his elbows on the table, and his face in his hands.  Yes, the quicker the trial was over, the better for Mike’s peace of mind.

“I’m ready, your honor.  I call Johnathan Sidwell to the stand.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

Mike eyed Jonathan Sidwell warily, as he was sworn in and took a seat on the witness stand.  His memories of the man dated almost entirely to the years before his parents died, before he left Rosswood.  He’d seen him briefly, that one night back, before the sky fell in on him.  They’d made plans to meet the next day, to go over the estate accounts, and discuss the future of Rosswood.   Could Jonathan have been in league with Logan?  Mike thought not.  If Harvey had enlisted him as a witness, he must not have an entirely unfavorable opinion of Mike.

It was difficult to concentrate on the proceedings, with Logan’s accusations and hateful comments fresh in his mind.  Still reeling from that, he’d had to listen to Brooks detail his treatment for the past three years, forcing him to relive the feelings of deep despair which had been his constant companion.  The only thing holding him together was the presence of Harvey beside him, stalwart and calm as he tore the testimony apart. 

Even with Harvey there, Mike’s old habits tempted him.  He could hear the words in his mind, beckoning to him, waiting for him to fall back into them and disappear.  Each touch from Harvey reminded him what was at stake, and helped to push back the darkness which threatened to descend. 

It was an especial sort of torture, not to allow his true feelings for Harvey so show on his face, or to shine in his eyes.  Everywhere he looked he saw only pitfalls, and potential danger.  More than once this morning, he’d caught himself longing for a touch of laudanum, just a spoonful to see him through this ordeal. 

He could not allow these black thoughts to overwhelm him.  All he could think to do was straighten his spine, hold himself as still as possible, and keep his lips clamped together.  By God, it was exhausting.

He’d missed the first few question Harvey put to Sidwell.  Presumably, Harvey had been establishing who he was, and his connection to Mike.  Mike endeavored to listen, and not to dwell on the knowledge that Harvey intended to put him on the stand today.  More than anything that had happened so far, this terrified him.  Harvey might be a fine lawyer, but if Mike couldn’t convince the judge of his fitness, all of this was just an empty exercise.

“Mr. Sidwell,” Harvey was saying, “how well do you know the defendant?”

“When he lived at Rosswood as a child, I knew him quite well.  Now?  He is all but a stranger to me.”

“What was your position at Rosswood?”

“I managed the estate, both before and after Michael’s parents perished.  I’ve since been forced to seek other employment.”

“How did James and Nina Ross die?”

“They were traveling by sloop up the river to attend a livestock auction.  No one saw how it happened.  The boat capsized and sank, and neither could swim.” 

“Was bad weather the culprit?  Did they collide with some unseen obstacle in the river?”

“The weather was fine, and the section of the river where the sloop was found was slow and wide, perhaps one of the easiest stretches in the county.”

“Do you have any theories as to the cause?”

Mike glanced at Hardman, expecting him to object, but he appeared as confused by the line of questioning as Mike was.

On the stand, Sidwell frowned.  “I put my suspicions in front of the constable twenty-three years ago.  He didn’t find any merit in them, and ruled it an accident.”

“Will you share those suspicions with the court?”

“Counsellor,” said the judge in a chiding tone, “how is this relevant to the case at hand?”

“My next question will make that clear.”  A brief pause.  “May I proceed?”

The judge waved at him, indicating that he should continue.

“Mr. Sidwell, did your suspicions in any way involve the plaintiff, Logan Sanders?”

Sidwell did not look directly at Logan, but his face took on a look of distaste, as if he had smelled something foul.  “Yes, it did.  I observed him in the boathouse perhaps fifteen minutes before Mr. and Mrs. Ross departed.  Later, when I pulled the sloop from the river, with the help of several other men, we all clearly saw a perfectly formed hole in the hull, not made by any rocky outcropping or drifting deadwood.”

“Did anyone besides yourself approach the constable?”

“The others had no enthusiasm for angering Sanders.  Didn’t want their livestock poisoned, their crops set to the torch, or their daughters seduced and led astray.”

“They thought Mr. Sanders, even at the tender age of sixteen, capable of such acts?  Why?”

“He’d done it before, or hired men to act on his behalf.”

“Objection,” said Daniel.  “Your honor, this is all hearsay.”

“Sustained.  Mr. Specter, kindly either move to a different line of questioning, or release the witness.”

Harvey did not appear pleased by the ruling, but Mike knew the law well enough to know Judge Dayton was correct.  With a reluctant nod, Harvey resumed.

“Mr. Sanders testified earlier that he managed the estate during Mr. Ross’ absence.  Did you observe that to be true?”

Sidwell gave an ugly laugh.  “The notion is laughable.  The man rarely rose before noon, spent his days drinking heavily, and his nights at whatever card game he could find.  Sometimes he hosted his own games right in the parlor at Rosswood.  I had to forcibly remove more than one unsavory character from the premises.  When their games lasted longer than one night, and their behavior grew wilder and more licentious, I feared for the safety of my wife and daughters.”

“And yet, you stayed on?”

“Of course.  I loved the place.  I was right there with James Ross when he bought the property, and helped him establish the stable, and the apiary, and the rest of it.  Logan Sanders was no manager, that was all me, with help from my Mary.”

“If I asked you the same question I asked of Mr. Sanders earlier, would you be able to answer more intelligently?”

“Objection.”

“Overruled.”

“Mr. Sidwell, how does one protect against bee stings?”

“Well, you can’t, not one hundred percent.  But you can take steps to lessen the danger.  Our keepers wore heavy clothing, gloves, and hats with veils to protect the face.  They also employed smoking pots, which calm the hive, and allows for collection of the combs.”

“Thank you.  You sound quite knowledgeable.”  Harvey gave Hardman a challenging look, one eyebrow lifted, but evidently, he didn’t feel that another objection was worth the energy.

“What can you tell us,” Harvey continued, “about the night three years ago that Mike Ross returned to Rosswood?”

“Not a great deal.  He sent a wire, alerting us to his arrival, but we did not receive it until the following day, after he was already gone.  When he showed up, we hastened to prepare the main house for him.”

“You did not reside there?”

“No.  My family and I had use of a cottage on the estate, perhaps half a mile from the house.”

“How did Mr. Ross seem that day?”

“Tired, but in fair spirits.  Happy to be home.  I invited him to dine with Mary and myself, but Logan insisted he had planned a lavish welcoming dinner for Mike.  I left them to it, and that is the last I saw of Mike until today.”  He directed his gaze toward Mike, nodding once, appearing almost apologetic.

“Did you not question his sudden absence the next day?”

“I did, but was told by Sanders much the same story he gave here today.”

“Hm.  How would you describe Mr. Ross’ character?”

“Oh, well, as to that, he was a typical child.  Curious, fond of books, apt to find trouble, loving with his parents, devoted to his cousin.  If he could have spent every waking hour with him, he would have.  Logan did not tolerate it, however.  He avoided Mike if he could, and if he couldn’t, he found any way he could to make his life a misery.”

“Such as?”

“Think of a childish prank, and Logan likely played it on Mike.  As the years passed, the pranks grew crueler.”

“Culminating in the cruelest prank of all, where he murdered his own aunt and uncle?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”  The judge pointed a finger at Harvey.  “I’m assuming you know better than that.”

Harvey stared down the judge for a few seconds, before turning back to Sidwell.  “At any time since you’ve known him, has Mike Ross ever shown himself to be of less than sound mind?”

“No.  Never.”

“Thank you.  I’m through with the witness.”

Now it was Hardman’s turn.  Mike cringed inside, imagining all the ways he might twist Sidwell’s words.

“Mike Ross left Rosswood when he was eleven years old.  Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, you were acquainted with him as a child, but know nothing of the adult.”

Sidwell glanced at the judge, back to Hardman, and shrugged.  “That’s what I said before.”

“Yes, you did.  You also made some serious allegations regarding my client.  Can you provide this court with any substantive, irrefutable evidence that Mr. Sanders caused harm – outside of childhood pranks – to Mr. Ross, his parents, or anyone else?”

“I never saw a mountain lion maul its prey, but I know for a fact that is its natural inclination.”

“Non-responsive,” said Hardman.

Judge Dayton leaned toward Sidwell.  “Just a yes or no will suffice.”

Eyes flashing with annoyance, Sidwell answered, “No.”

Hardman smirked at the witness.  “Thank you, sir.  I believe I’m done with you.”

Mike watched Sidwell stand and leave, unsure what, if anything had been accomplished by his testimony.  He had no chance to ask Harvey, who was already announcing his next witness.

“I call Elijah Doggett as witness.”

The name was not familiar to Mike, and neither was the man who ambled up to the witness stand.  His clothing was rough homespun, his boots scuffed and worn down, his beard untrimmed, and his hair long and curling against his shoulders.  Frowning, he glanced at Mike, and away again, frowning more deeply.  Mike felt himself mirroring the frown as he struggled to remember how this man fit into his life.  Had he known him at the asylum?  Had he served with him in the war?  The mystery was solved quickly, as Harvey began his questioning.

“On the night of Mike Ross’ return, were you one of the men employed by Logan Sanders to kidnap him?”

“Objection to the use of the term ‘kidnap’.”

“Mr. Specter?  Kindly rephrase.”

“Were you one of the servants called upon to subdue my client, and carry him away from Rosswood?”

“Yes.  Logan paid us five dollars apiece to wait outside with the wagon while he dined with his cousin.”

“Us?  There were two of you?”

“Me and Nathan Barnes, God rest his soul.”

“Has Mr. Barnes departed this world, then?”

“He has.  Got stabbed in Rosie’s Tavern nearly a year ago.”

“Tragic.  Getting back to the matter at hand, please tell us how long you waited.”

“Nearly three hours.”

“Were you outside the entire time?”

“Yes.”

“And you did not witness the alleged attack by my client?”

Doggett flicked a disdainful glance Mike’s way.  “Attacked?  By him?  He could barely walk, even before Logan dosed his drink with the tincture of opium I brought him.  After that, he was harmless as a babe.  It was no trouble at all to get him in the wagon, and take him to the train.”

Harvey tilted his head, as if trying to understand something.  “If I’m hearing correctly, Mr. Sanders planned this … _removal_ … before dinner ever began.”

“That’s how it happened.”  Doggett directed a hostile look at Logan, who, Mike now saw, was glowering at the witness.  “No need to sneer at me, Logan.  Maybe if you hadn’t cheated me and Nathan after we helped you loot the big house, I’d still be loyal.  As it stands, I don’t owe you nothing.”

Harvey spent a few minutes questioning Doggett regarding the extent of Logan’s thievery.  Mike tried to concentrate, but found himself sunk in self-recrimination.  How had he not seen what Logan was?  Had he been so eager for his approval and friendship that he’d willfully overlooked Logan’s true nature?  Could he trust his own instincts about anyone?  What if he was as wrong about Harvey as he’d been about Logan?

Hardman rose to cross-examine Doggett, not questioning his recounting of events, but pressing him on his various criminal pursuits, and establishing the general unsavoriness of his character.  Mike forced his attention back to the proceedings when Doggett was excused.  He assumed that he would be the next witness called.  As it turned out, Harvey had another surprise in store for him.

“I call Norma Sweeney to the stand."

Mike turned in his seat to watch his grandmother's longtime cook and companion walk to the front of the courtroom, back proudly straight despite her advanced years.  He had no idea as to her true age, but guessed she had to be at least in her seventies.  When had Harvey decided to call her as witness?  How had he even found her in time?  Letters had been sent, but he’d assumed no answer had yet arrived. 

Even as he thought this, Mike chided himself for his foolishness.  This wasn't the old days, after all.  Now, telegraph wires connected all the major cities on the east coast, and had spanned the continent seven years earlier.  The same was true of the railroads.  One could easily travel between Boston and New York in a day.  Although a complete transcontinental connection was perhaps still a year away, newspaper accounts suggested that upon completion, travel between New York and San Francisco might be trimmed to a week, or less.

He listened with half an ear as Harvey questioned Norma regarding her mistress, Edith Ross, and her impressions of Edith's grandson, Michael.

"He was a smart lad.  That much I could see.  Always with his nose in a book.  Never had many friends, excepting that scoundrel, Trevor Evans."

"Scoundrel?  Why do you call him that?"

She let out a rasping laugh.  "You've met him, have you not?  He has the devil's own temperament.  Never saw a patch of trouble he wouldn't jump at, feet first, and bring Michael right along with him."

Mike had heard many things objected to today, and this assessment of his friend made him want to leap to his feet, with an objection of his own.  Trevor may have been a scoundrel, as Norma said, but he was Mike's friend – his best friend, and for much of his childhood, his only friend.  A glance at Harvey showed him unperturbed by her frankness, and Mike relaxed slightly.

"Did you find anything unusual about their friendship?"

"I did not, and if you're implying what I think you are, all I have to say about that is, when Michael loved a person, he loved everything about them, end of story.  You ask me, the world could do with a bit more of that attitude.  We ain't even three years past the time when this country was tearing itself in half over one kind of people treating another kind of people like shite – beg pardon.  So, all I'm gonna say is, Michael was – _is –_ a good lad, and there ain't a thing indecent about him."

Mike had never heard Norma speak so many words at once, and he’d never heard her say a kind word about anyone.  He realized his mouth had fallen open, and carefully closed it. 

“Can you describe,” said Harvey, “his relationship with his grandmother?”

“He loved her, and she loved him.  When he disappeared, she took to her bed, and never left it.  It was the beginning of the end for her.”

“What about Mr. Sanders?  What was her relationship with him?”

“They didn’t have none!  She never met him, not until he showed up a couple months ago, and wormed his way into the house.”

“Did you try to deny him entrance?”

“Wasn’t my place, nor Jenny’s – she was the only staff remaining besides me.”

“Was he a good guest?”

Norma let out an amused sounding snort.  “Not a bit.  He demanded constant attention, drank anything he could find, and stalked poor Jenny like a wolf after a rabbit, until she was near to losing her wits.  If he’d ever been sober, he might have been dangerous.  He never contributed a dime to the household, even though we were down to nothing but moldy scraps in the pantry.”

“Did Mrs. Ross ever express a wish for Mr. Sanders to inherit her estate?”

“She did not.  I kept him out of her room, not that he wanted to see, ‘the sick old sow,’ as he put it.  If Mrs. Ross even knew he existed, it’d be news to me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sweeny.”

“Miss, if you please.”

“My apologies.  Miss Sweeney.”

Harvey sat back down next to Mike, and gave his arm a reassuring pat.  Hardman rose, and approached Norma.

“Did your mistress search for her grandson these past three years?”

“No.”

“Yet, you testified that she was distraught when he disappeared.”

“She disliked Rosswood, seeing how it had already taken her only son from her.  It seemed to have done likewise with Michael.”

“I’ll repeat my question: did she search for him?”

“There didn’t seem a need.  She received regular letters from Michael, claiming he was doing fine at Rosswood.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that those letters were forgeries?”

“Objection.  How would this witness know that?  Can she even read?”

Norma lifted her chin.  “I can read.  Who do you think read those letters to Mrs. Edith?  I knew they were fakes.  The writing looked nothing like Michael’s.  What good would have come of telling her the truth?  It eased her mind to believe all remained well.”

“Let’s talk about her mind, shall we?  Isn’t it true that Edith Ross’ degenerative illness caused a severe diminishment of her faculties?”

“I don’t know about all them five-dollar words, but if you mean was she losing her memories, then yes, she was.”

“And just to be clear, she had no idea that her grandson had been committed to Utica Asylum?”

“It would have broken her poor heart.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Take it however you like, jackeen.”

“How, then, could you, or anyone else, know what her wishes would have been if she’d known of her grandson’s descent into madness?”

“Objection!”  Harvey slapped the table with the flat of his palm.

Judge Dayton tapped his gavel once.  “Save it for your closing, if you please, Mr. Hardman.”

Despite the rebuke, Hardman smiled as if he’d won some point.  “I have no further questions for this witness.”

Before Norma could leave the stand, Harvey was up on his feet.  “Your honor, I’d like to redirect.”

The judge flapped a hand at him.

“What’s this?” asked Norma, voice tinged with suspicion.

“I just want to ask you a few more questions,” said Harvey, “and then you may go.”

“Oh.  Ask away, then.”

“It has been suggested Edith Ross was confused as to her own wishes, regarding her estate.”

“She might have been confused about a lot of things, but ever since he was born, she knew Michael would be her heir, even before her own son, James.”

“Objection.  Hearsay.”

“Sustained.”

Norma squinted at the judge.  “What’s that mean?  I ain’t lying.”

“It doesn’t mean you’re lying.  Only that you are testifying to what another has said, or what their intentions might have been.  The court requires proof, not supposition.”

Wrinkling her brow, as if she hadn’t fully understood the judge’s explanation, Norma said, “What if I told you I had proof?”

“Objec—” began Hardman, but Harvey interrupted him.

Pulling a document from the stack of papers at their table – which Mike recognized as the will found under the floorboards – he approached the judge.  “I would like to introduce this as Exhibit A.”

“Objection,” Hardman finally got out.  “I don’t know what that is.  He can’t do this.  Judge, you can’t allow it.”

The judge gave him a quelling glare, and then motioned him to join Harvey at his table.

Mike looked on, unable to hear their whispered words, but clearly able to see the anger on Hardman’s face.  After what Harvey had said about the will previously, he hadn’t expected him to introduce it as evidence.  Would the judge even allow it?

After a few moments of hushed arguing, the judge ruled that the will could be allowed as evidence.  Harvey quizzed Norma for a few minutes on the particulars of the will, and then, seemingly satisfied, he sat down.

“Mr. Hardman?” asked the judge.  “Would you care to re-cross the witness?”

“No, you honor.  I’m willing to stipulate to the document’s authenticity.”

This should have relieved Mike’s mind.  Harvey, however, did not appear at all relieved.

“All right.  If you’re both done with Miss Sweeney, the witness is excused.”

Norma walked past Mike, sparing him only the briefest of glances.  He promised himself he would write a letter to her, expressing his thanks.  According to Grammy’s will, she was still owed a year’s wages, and something personal, of her own choosing.  Mike would make certain she received both.

Now, however, he had more pressing worries on his mind.  He realized that Harvey had come to stand in front of the table, gazing down at Mike, waiting for him to lift his own gaze.  When he did, Harvey murmured, “Are you ready for this?”

Mike was not.  He had been dreading this moment for weeks.  Everything came down to his testimony.  Harvey had led him through all the questions he intended to ask, as well as the questions which Hardman would likely put to him.  He was as well-rehearsed as he could be, but despite all that, an almost paralyzing fear overtook him, making it an act of pure will simply to nod his head once in reply to Harvey’s query.

Harvey turned to face the judge.  “As my final witness, I call Michael Ross to the stand.”

Nausea washed through Mike.  He gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white. 

“You can do this,” he heard Harvey whisper, for his ears alone.

He pushed himself to his feet.  With the help of his cane, moving as if he had only recently learned to walk, he limped to the witness stand, feeling every eye in the room fixed upon him.  A bible appeared in front of him, and after a second’s hesitation, he remembered to place his palm upon it, and swear that he would tell the truth.  Finally, he was permitted to sit once more, and he did so with a straight back, never letting go of the cane, which felt like a lifeline in that moment, a physical connection to the man in front of him, who had saved his life in every way that mattered.

Mike was terrified, but he would not repay Harvey by failing in this moment.

“Please state your name for the record,” said Harvey.

“Michael James Ross.”

“Various accusations and allegations have been made against you in this courtroom today.  It has been suggested that you are not of sound mind.  How would you respond to that?”

Despite Harvey’s coaching, Mike still found it a struggle to form the correct words.  “I would say that I am.  Yes.  I always have been.”

“And yet, you spent close to three years inside an insane asylum.”

“Because a cruel man, my own cousin, wished to enrich himself at my expense.”

“The superintendent of the asylum sat right where you sit now, and swore that you were demonstrably mad.  Can you explain that?”

“He … they … everyone at the asylum …”  Mike snatched a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his upper lip, dabbing at the moisture there.  “They saw what they wanted to see.  What they expected to see.  I would propose an experiment, if it weren’t so cruel to possible volunteers, wherein perfectly sane individuals are sent to the asylum under the same circumstances as I.  I submit that were they treated exactly as I was, before long, they would likewise be judged insane.”

“So, no one inside the walls of Utica Asylum is in need of the therapies they provide?  They are all just misunderstood, as were you?”

“I’m not suggesting they are all of sound mind.  I don’t see, though, how anyone with an ounce of decency and compassion could think that the cruelties they inflict upon the inmates accomplish anything more than to drive them further down into the pit of madness.”

“Let’s talk about – ” began Harvey, but Mike wasn’t finished yet.

He was improvising, against which Harvey had warned him severely.  The words tumbled from him regardless of his best intentions, and he couldn’t see to stop them.  “Our legal system in this country assumes a person’s innocence, until it has been proven otherwise.  In institutions such as Utica Asylum, the assumption is completely the opposite.  One is assumed mad, unless one can prove that they are not.  But how, pray tell, does one go about proving that?  We are all mad in our own ways, even though we may hide our eccentricities from our colleagues, and friends, and even our closest family members.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Ross,” said Harvey, giving him a hard stare, “but I would like to question you regarding one particular eccentricity mentioned earlier.  It has been said that you hold conversations with people not visible to anyone else.  Is that true?”

Mike glanced at the judge, trying to determine how he was responding to his testimony.  He appeared interested, leaning in Mike’s direction with a furrowed brow, but other than that, his face gave nothing away.

Speaking haltingly, Mike tried to make the judge understand.  “Have you not, upon occasion, spoken aloud to someone who was not in front of you in that moment?  Or held a conversation with yourself?  That sort of behavior is not unique to me.  It so happens that my memory is unusually robust, far out of the usual range.  I can remember entire books … entire libraries.” 

Mike shifted in his seat and rubbed his thumb over the handle of his cane, tracing the raised damascene pattern, pushing against it in order to leave an impression of the delicate working on his flesh.  This felt like dangerous territory to Mike.  An admission of this particular idiosyncrasy would set him apart from the average man, and not earn him any empathy.  He reminded himself that no jury was present, and that the judge was an educated man, who had thus far shown himself to be impartial, and even somewhat sympathetic toward Mike’s side of the case.

He sighed, and continued his explanation.  “From the time I was a child, if I was frightened, or lonely, or bored, I would recite out loud from books I had read.  I resorted to it only sporadically, but more often after my parents died and I came to live in what seemed to me alien and frightening surroundings.”

Unexpectedly, Judge Dayton spoke.  “What are we talking about exactly?  Daydreaming?”

Frowning, Mike considered his answer.  “In some respects, it’s similar.  However, I wasn’t making up my own stories in my mind, I was using my memories of the words others had penned.”

“To what end?”

Mike sighed.  He found the necessity of explaining his habit to strangers wearying.  “I suppose it was for the purpose of blocking out the thoughts which might have consumed me without this harmless diversion.  And it was harmless, I believe, except that too many others mistook it for something it was not.”

“Such as?” asked Harvey.

A bitter laugh worked its way out of Mike’s throat.  “Such as demonic possession.  Witchcraft.  Incurable madness.”

“Do you persist in this habit nowadays?”

“Rarely.  Having escaped the torments visited upon me in the asylum, the need for escape into the recesses of my memories has all but disappeared.”

Harvey changed the subject.  “Do you believe you are entitled to inherit your grandmother’s estate?”

“Entitled?  I suppose so, as her only living heir.  Do I deserve it?”  He could feel the weight of Harvey’s gaze upon him, probably entreating him not to say anything more.  Keeping his own gaze fixed upon the table several feet in front of him, Mike continued nevertheless.  “Perhaps not.  With everything she did for me after I arrived on her doorstep, I repaid her by first abandoning her and enlisting to fight in the war, and then by fleeing to Rosswood, leaving her here to endure what had to have been an appalling three years of decline, both mental and physical.”

“Does Logan Sanders deserve anything from her?”

“No,” said Mike in a small voice.  “His villainy has been described already by other witnesses today, and I’m afraid I must concur.  He is my cousin, and for the longest time I wished to hold him in high esteem.  The scales have fallen from my eyes, revealing him as a thief, and a liar and … and … possibly …”  Mike’s voice dropped to a whisper.  “A murderer,” he finished.

“Objection,” said Hardman.  “No facts have been introduced to prove this baseless slander, and – ”

Judge Dayton held up a hand, halting his words.  “Sustained.”  He chuckled.  “I’ll instruct myself to disregard.”  To Harvey, he said, “Any more questions for Mr. Ross?”

“No.  I reserve the right, however, to redirect following cross.”

“So noted.   Mr. Hardman?”

Once more, they changed positions, Hardman standing, as Harvey retook his seat. 

Mike wanted to cringe away from Hardman, but continued to sit straight and breathe slowly, in and out.  Hardman paced toward him, like a beast stalking its prey.

“You’ve had an eventful life,” said Hardman, voice mild.

Frowning at this unexpected opening remark, Mike glanced to Harvey, who was leaning on the table, hands folded together, with his chin resting on them.

“I suppose so,” replied Mike doubtfully.  “Nothing far out of the ordinary, I’d think.”

“Lived half your life on a farm.”

“It wasn’t a –”

“A rural estate, then.  Parents died young.  Spent the next half of your life here, in the city.  War came, and you answered the call.  What was that like?  Sadly, I was too old to enlist, but I read the newspaper accounts.  The loss of life was shocking, was it not?  And the suffering.  I can only rely upon my imagination, but you … you lived it first-hand.  You were grievously injured, and still suffer the physical affects, as we can see here today.”

Mike was uncertain what, if any, answer was required of him.  He looked to the judge for guidance, and then to Harvey, but no help was forthcoming from either quarter.  “I … yes.  I suppose that is all true.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that in Utica Asylum alone, fully twenty-three of the inmates fought in the war as well?"

"So few?  I would have expected the number to be higher."

"I've written to a dozen or more asylums around the country, and those that have replied tell me that the veteran population is proportionally high, and increasing every month."

"Objection," said Harvey.  "Counsel is testifying to facts not in evidence."

"I've brought the correspondence with me today."  Hardman returned to his table and lifted a stack of paper.  “I would like to enter these letters as Exhibit B."

“So entered,” said the judge.  “Bring them up here so I can have a look at them.  Mr. Specter?  You too.”

While Mike waited for Judge Dayton and Harvey to examine the correspondence, he puzzled over this strategy of Hardman’s.  His gaze wandered of its own accord over to Logan, who had lost his smug smirk, and appeared to be sunk in his own dark thoughts.  Mike could understand why.  He had been portrayed, both through his own testimony and that of others, as the dissipated villain Mike now knew him to be.  How must he feel, to be on the brink of losing out on the fortune which Hardman had no doubt promised would be his?

Mike could only hope that was the outcome of the case.  If the judge ruled against him, and in favor of Logan …  That simply could not happen, he decided.  Harvey would win this last fight for him.  He must. 

His thoughts were interrupted as the conference ended, and Harvey and Hardman moved away from the judge.

“Mr. Specter, will you stipulate to the authenticity of these documents?” asked the judge.

“I will, but I repeat my objection, as my client is not the subject of any of the letters.”

Judge Dayton turned his attention to Hardman.  “I’m giving you a bit of leeway here, but if I feel you’ve strayed too far off course, I will put an end to your questioning.”

“Understood.  Mr. Ross, I can see from the look on your face that you’re curious as to what is in these letters.  As I’ve stated previously, they are responses to inquiries regarding war veterans who have come to reside within a number of asylums.”  He separated one sheet of paper from the pile he still held.  “For instance, this letter from the Government Hospital for the Insane in Washington, D.C., describes one of their inmates, who fought and was wounded at Antietam.  If you would, please read the underlined portion for the court.”

Reluctantly, Mike took the letter from him.  He looked over at Harvey, whose expression remained blankly neutral, but who gave Mike a brief nod, indicating that he should do as Hardman requested.  After coughing once to relieve his suddenly dry throat, he began reading.

“’The subject alternates between what might best be described as obstinate silence, during which he will do nothing further than stare in front of him, refusing to speak, or eat, or acknowledge the presence of doctor and orderly alike.  This inaction will sometimes switch, with no warning, to an acute mania, wherein he speaks to former comrades in arms who are not there, while exhibiting symptoms of what we’ve come to refer to as ‘soldiers heart.’  His breath grows short and labored, his eyes are round as marbles.  All attempts to calm him are met with such a degree of aggression that the only remedy is to restrain him in the tranquilizer chair, and wait for his agitation to subside.  Tincture of opium has also proven to have a reasonably palliative effect.’” 

Mike stopped reading.  He guessed what Hardman’s next question would be.  Moments later, he was proven to be correct.

“Mr. Ross, do those symptoms remind you of anybody?”

“Perhaps,” he hedged.

“Could this passage not have been written about you?”

“But it wasn’t.”  Mike shifted in his seat, gripping the cane more tightly.  “I fail to see the relevance.”.

“Do you?  An intelligent young man such as yourself?  Allow me, then, to explain it to you.  You’ve been described here as a once typical child, with no discernible indicators of impending madness.  What changed?  You went to war.  As these letters attest, not all men possess minds strong enough to see them through the difficulties encountered in the situations in which you found yourself.  The majority of men described in these letters have no hope of improvement.”

“Should you not be posing a question?”  Mike gave Judge Dayton a pointed look.

“The witness is correct,” said the judge.  Frowning, he consulted his pocket watch.  “Do you have any more questions for him, or not?  If we can wrap this up, and get to your closing statements, we may be able to adjourn by noon.”

“Fine,” said Hardman, with no attempt at grace.  “I’ll address this issue more fully in my closing.  For now, I would like to ask the witness a few questions pertaining to an issue alluded to by my client.  Mr. Ross, is it true that you prefer the company of men to women?”

Mike’s guard, which had relaxed during the back and forth with the judge, leapt back into place.  “I beg your pardon?  I’m not sure …”

“You’re not sure if you are a lover of men?”

“I certainly do not love you,” Mike snapped.  “Or my cousin.”

The crowd tittered at this, but was quieted by a glare from Judge Dayton.

Hardman moved closer to the witness stand, his expression one of combined disgust and intrigue.  “You needn’t pretend to misunderstand what I’m asking.  It’s a simple yes or no question.  Are you a sodomite?”

Mike’s mouth fell open.  He could not think of a single thing to say which would not damn him in one way or another.  If he admitted to it, he was guilty of one crime, and if he denied it, he was committing the crime of perjury.  Thankfully, Harvey intervened.

“I object to this entire line of questioning.”

“Your client can plead the fifth,” said the judge.

“If he has to, he will.  However, I fail to see the relevance to the case.”

“Mr. Hardman?”

“Several renowned scientists have suggested in recent years that the inclination toward unnatural acts classifies as a type of insanity.”

Harvey gave him a frankly disbelieving look.  “So, you thought you’d cover all possible bets?  He’s insane because he fought in a war?  He’s insane because he allegedly enjoys the company of men – a charge, I’ll remind the court, which was put forth by a known liar, and has yet to be proven.”

“Your honor, if you would instruct the witness to answer my last question …”

“No, I believe I will sustain Mr. Specter’s objection.  This is all speculation and innuendo.”

Hardman gave a dissatisfied sigh.  “Then I’ll pose my final questions to the witness.  Mr. Ross, how did you meet your lawyer?”

“He … he came to the asylum and sought my release.  On your instruction, I believe.”

“Since your arrival in New York, where have you been staying?”

“With Mr. Specter.”

“Isn’t it true, that you have been sharing, not only a room, but a bed with Mr. Specter for the past month or more?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.  You, Mr. Hardman, are flirting with a contempt citation.  I believe I made my feelings on innuendo clear.  Were you confused by any of my words?”

“No, your honor.  My apologies.”  No one had ever sounded less apologetic than Hardman did in that moment.  “I’m finished with this witness.”

Judge Dayton turned to Harvey.  “Did you wish to redirect?”

“I do.  This won’t take long.  Mr. Ross, what year is it?”

“1868.”

“Who is the current president of these United States?”

“Andrew Johnson.”

“Where is this courtroom located?”

“In New York City, at the intersection of Fifth Avenue and 92nd Street.

“How old were you when you were committed to the asylum?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Twenty-three.  I turn twenty-four next month.”

“Thank you.  That is all.  The defense rests.”

Mike returned to his seat at the table, still somewhat shaky, but overall relieved that his part was finished.  Judge Dayton called for a ten-minute recess, to allow for both sides to prepare for their closing arguments.  Hardman and Logan left the courtroom, but Harvey stayed at the table with Mike.

“I know what I’m going to say,” he told Mike.  “Don’t look so worried.  It’s going to be all right.”

“What if it isn’t?  What then?  Will I be taken away immediately, or given the chance to put my affairs in order first?”  What he really wanted to know was how much time he’d be allowed to make his escape.

Harvey placed a hand on Mike’s arm, seemed to think better of it, and withdrew.  “It won’t come to that.  Trust me, please.  Our case is much stronger than theirs.  You will walk out of here today a free man, and newly wealthy.”

Mike nodded, showing that he understood.  He couldn’t banish the sick knot of fear in his belly, however.

 

******

 

Harvey knew all of Hardman’s tricks and strategies.  He could have scripted his closing statement for him, and had, in fact, done so on numerous cases in the past.  He listened with half an ear while Hardman summarized Logan’s version of events at Rosswood, repeated the supposedly expert opinions of Superintendent Brooks, and strove to make the case that Mike was both immoral, and incurably insane, having been driven to madness by the horrors of war.

“Your honor, all one need do is look closely at the young man to see his depravity.  He wears it upon him like a cloak.  He has been well coached by his lawyer, and makes a decent enough showing to perhaps fool a less discerning gentleman than yourself.  Look how he fidgets there in his seat.  Observe the way in which his gaze wanders, unable to maintain focus.  This is clearly a man holding himself together by the thinnest of threads.  He must be returned to where his treatment may continue, both to protect society from his eventual breakdown, and to protect him from himself.  He cannot be trusted with the wealth his grandmother left behind.  For the sake of her memory, and for all those who might be harmed by him with access to so much money, there is only one course of action to be taken here today.  Put the money under the stewardship of a worthier heir, my client, Logan Sanders.”

Hardman returned to his table and sat, his expression one of smug piety.  Harvey tamped down the urge to laugh out loud at his ridiculous posturing.  He’d had a lengthy, detailed closing argument planned, but after opposing counsel’s weak showing, he felt secure in throwing most of it out the window.  It was his turn to speak, so he went to stand in front of the judge, hands behind his back.

“I’m no doctor, and neither are you.  Still, are we expected to ignore what our own eyes can see?  I visited the Utica Asylum, and I have observed firsthand the face of true madness.  Even in his greatest extremity – caused, I would submit, by the very institution which claimed to be curing him – Mike Ross was nowhere near as far gone as those other poor souls.  Every day spent away from that place has seen a further improvement in him, until he is as you see today:  cleared-eyed, rational, eloquent of speech, fully able to orient himself in time and place.

“He may have suffered tumults of the mind and heart caused by his experiences in battle, but what person of sensibility would not?  Fully two million soldiers fought for the North, and nearly another million for the South.  Compared to that, the numbers confined to asylums sounds almost insignificant.  I don’t doubt that their torment is real, but how can we say they represent the whole, when the vast majority of their brothers in arms remain at home, tending their farms, raising families, continuing their normal, daily lives in spite of the memories carried back from war?

“Mike Ross is of sound mind.  He is the only legitimate heir to his grandmother’s estate.  The plaintiff, Logan Sanders, is a proven liar, reprobate, thief, and worse.  This sort of blatant attempt at thievery, in the guise of legal process, does not surprise me, considering all I’ve learned of him these past weeks.  The only thing about this case which surprises me is that my former colleague, who holds himself up as such an esteemed member of the bar, should involve himself in such a sham.

“I’m confident that once your honor reviews all the facts of the case, you will rule in favor of my client.”

With that, Harvey took his seat.

Judge Dayton called an hour’s recess.  They would all return after lunch to hear his verdict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a bit of a cliffhanger. I'm going to try to start posting a new chapter every two weeks. We'll see how that goes.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... evidently, I got inspired. Yes, another chapter, in less than a week. I have a pretty clear idea how the next chapters will go. Therefore, I'm going to tentatively plan for a chapter a week while I finish this thing up, although if things go the way they normally do, I might slow down again on the last couple of chapters.
> 
> Also, I just realized that I haven't replied to any comments for a while, because, apparently, I am a dumbass. Going forward, if anyone cares to leave I comment, I promise to acknowledge it. As for any comments thus far, I appreciate them so much, and thanks to you all.

“I hope you all had a pleasant lunch,” said Judge Dayton, as he settled back into his chair.  “I’ve made my decision, and I won’t leave you in suspense.  I find that the plaintiff’s claim against the estate of Edith Ross is baseless.  Additionally, I find that Mr. Ross is of sound mind – as much as any of us are – and further, is the only legitimate heir to the estate.  Case dismissed.  Oh, wait, one more thing.  Mr. Sanders?  If I were you, I would leave our lovely city with all due haste.  We already possess our fair share of local thieves and cheats, and don’t need any new imports.”  He banged his gavel down.  “Now, this case is dismissed.”

All of the tightly coiled tension inside of Mike seemed to give way at once.  His knees buckled, and he sat back down abruptly, resting his head in his hands.  He felt a warm palm on his back – Harvey’s – offering him support. 

“Let me get you home,” Harvey murmured in his ear.

Mike held up one hand.  “Please, give me a moment.”  He felt light-headed, partly from relief, and partly because he had not been able to manage any food at either breakfast or lunch. 

“Take your time, sweetheart.”

Harvey spoke the endearment quietly enough that only Mike heard, but still he cringed inside at the thought of anyone remaining in the audience overhearing, and having their suspicions about him confirmed.  He hated not being able to simply bask in Harvey’s obvious affection, but Hardman had come too close today to exposing their secret to the world.  They would need to be careful, for however much longer they had together.

He felt Harvey move away, and from the corner of his eye saw that he was gathering up the papers he had brought to court with him, and stuffing them into his leather satchel.  As always, Mike felt himself in awe of how heart-stoppingly handsome Harvey was. 

Hardman stepped up their table.  Not bothering to lower his voice, he snarled at Harvey, “You may have won today, but I intend to make it my mission to ensure that your victory is short-lived.  How do you think all those rich clients you hope to court, all those members of polite society, will feel when they hear about your …”  He cast a scornful look at Mike.  “Your _proclivities._   Not to mention that partner you’ve taken on.  A woman of color, Harvey?  Really?  Good luck with that.”  He let out a cruel sounding laugh.  “I predict your little upstart law firm won’t last the summer, and that is being generous.”

As Hardman started to walk away, Harvey ruined his rival’s dramatic exit by grabbing his arm.

“Jessica Pearson is already twice the lawyer you’ll ever be.  Your pathetic showing here today clearly demonstrates that.  With the contingency fee we just earned today, our accounts will be more than ample to withstand whatever you throw at us.  Try as you might to damage my reputation, it will never take away from the fact that I’m a winner.  Clients tend to prefer winners over impotent, pompous little blowhards such as you.”

Hardman sputtered out his indignation, but appeared unable to conjure a withering enough response.  Meanwhile, he turned an interesting shade of deep red, such that if Mike had cared one whit about the man’s health, he might have become concerned for him.

“Come on, Mike,” snapped Harvey.  “Let’s get out of here.”

This sounded like an excellent plan.  Mike followed Harvey from the courtroom.

 

******

 

In anticipation of either a victory, or the need for comfort and consolation, Donna had prepared an excellent beef roast, with creamed potatoes, freshly baked bread, and the last jar of spiced pears.  When she heard the outcome of the trial, she broke out her best French brandy, and the occupants of the boarding house toasted Mike, Harvey, each other, and the stretch of fine Spring weather which had been bestowed upon the city.

Mike watched as Harvey drank glass after glass, causing him to grow animated and uncommonly jovial.  He slapped Mike on the back too often, and instigated some of the more humorous toasts.  Mike could hardly blame him.  He’d worked hard over the past weeks, and had won a decisive victory over his former boss.  The contingency fee he’d boasted about to Hardman was not insignificant.  Mike did not begrudge him a penny of it.  Thanks to Harvey, he had gotten his life back, and in all the ways that mattered, he’d gotten himself back.

When Harvey stood up, swaying slightly, and announced – with a meaningful glance at Mike – that he was heading to bed, Mike grinned back at him, and said he’d be up in a minute.  Once Harvey had climbed the stairs, and disappeared from view, and they could hear the faint sounds of him bumping around his room, Mike turned to Jessica, and with a nod of his head, indicated that she should follow him to the drawing room.

Alone with Jessica, Mike asked her, “Were you able to prepare the papers we discussed?”

She looked troubled, but nodded.  “You’re absolutely sure this is what you want to do?  Harvey won’t be happy when he finds out.”

“It will be too late by then for him to do anything about it.”  She continued to stare at him, so he sighed and added, “You didn’t hear Hardman today.  He intends to sully Harvey’s reputation, and your firm's, all because of me.  If I remain here, it will only add fuel to the fire.”

“You don’t think Harvey can handle a bit of gossip?  I haven’t known him for long, but he doesn’t seem to be the type of man to concern himself with what other people think of him.”

“Maybe not, but if it begins to affect his livelihood, he may begin to be concerned.  And that is not even mentioning the things Hardman said about you.”

Her eyes darkened as she let out a humorless laugh.  “Oh, believe me, I’ve heard it all before.  Don’t you worry about me.  Even more so than Harvey, I can take whatever they throw at me.”

He did believe her, and nodded his understanding.  “Even so, I’m set upon my course.”

She sighed.  “Understood.  Stay here a moment while I get the papers.”

Mike waited, become increasingly agitated.  If Harvey grew impatient at his absence, and came downstairs to investigate, they would likely argue on a night that Mike wanted only to be close to Harvey – to the man he had come to love with all his heart.

Finally, Jessica returned carrying a sheaf of paper, and with Harold in tow.  At Mike’s lifted eyebrow, she explained, “We’ll need a witness.  Mr. Gunderson has requested, and I’ve agreed, to allow him to read for the law with me.”

“Oh.  Congratulations, Harold.”

Jessica instructed Mike where to sign, and initial, which he did with only a brief perusal of the documents to make sure that everything had been take care of.  Jessica and Harold signed beneath Mike’s name, and then Mike received copies to take with him.

“You won’t tell Harvey about this?  At least not right away?”

She frowned at him.  “He’s bound to ask questions.  Knowing him, he’ll figure it out on his own.  I’m already risking his trust by handling this without his knowledge.  I’ll keep your departure a secret for as long as I’m able, but I will not out and out lie to Harvey.”

“That’s fine.  That’s all I would ask.  I won't tell you where I'm going.  If you don't know, there is no need for you to lie about that.”

“Will you at least consider leaving him a letter, informing him of your decision, and your reasons behind it?”

“I will.”

“Then I guess there is nothing more to say except Godspeed, and best of luck.”

They stood, and came together in an embrace which was only slightly awkward. 

When they broke apart, Harold extended his hand to Mike, and they shook.

After that, Mike went up to see Harvey.

 

******

 

“You took a deucedly long time getting here,” slurred Harvey.  He’d nearly dozed off, waiting for Mike to join him in bed.

“I’m here now.”  Mike smiled at Harvey as he began to undress.

So sweet, Harvey mused, the brandy having made him more prone than usual to maudlin, sentimental thoughts.  He watched Mike’s pale skin slowly uncovered as he removed each piece of clothing, pleased that he’d put on some weight, even if he was still too thin. 

Harvey’s hands itched to touch Mike.  In the meantime, he settled for touching himself under the covers.  His prick had grown hard almost the instant Mike entered to the room, and now he longed to have it buried inside his lover.

“I was nearly ready to return downstairs to search for you,” he said, his voice unsteady with desire.

“In all your naked glory?” asked Mike.  “With your prick in your hand?”  He laughed at Harvey’s arched eyebrow.  “You don’t think I know what you’re doing right now?”  He whisked off his drawers, and kicked them away.  “How very impolite of you, not to wait for me.”

Harvey didn’t try to stop Mike when he reached for the covers and pulled them back and out of the way, revealing Harvey’s nakedness, and his proudly erect member, around which he’d wrapped his hand.  He didn’t even pause his leisurely stroking.  “But I did wait.  Were you too busy celebrating downstairs to begin our private celebrations?”

A shadow seemed to pass across Mike’s features, but just as quickly it was gone, and then Mike was grinning, climbing into bed, and gently setting Harvey’s hand aside, so that he could replace it with his lips and tongue.

In between licks and sucks, he managed to get out, “I did not … wish to be … impolite.  Mmm … your prick … is the most delightful … dessert.” 

He was quiet after that, except for the greedy, animal noises he made as he concentrated upon pleasuring Harvey.  The agreeable aftereffects of a touch too much brandy, combined with Mike’s superb skills, had Harvey advancing rapidly to completion.  He threaded his fingers through Mike’s hair, moaning without restraint. 

“Ah, sweetheart.  Yes.  Just like that.”  He arched up as Mike swallowed him to the root, wrapping one leg around his back, and pulling his hair to show his approval.  He was close – right at the edge – when Mike unexpectedly lifted his head and let his prick fall from his mouth. 

Before Harvey could protest, Mike turned his pretty blue eyes on him, and entreated in a whisper, “I would have you inside me, my darling man.”

“Yes,” said Harvey breathlessly.  “Of course.  Whatever you want.”  He meant it.  In that moment, he felt as if he would gladly give Mike the world, if it were in his power to do so.  “Come here first, and let me kiss you.”  

He extended a hand, and pulled Mike up, so that they lay face to face.  Although fire already raced through his veins, the kiss he bestowed upon Mike was tender and gentle.  He trembled with the effort to communicate, with lips and teeth and tongue, the depth of his feelings for the man in his arms.  “You,” he murmured, in between long, slow kisses, “were remarkable today.”

“No.  I was so frightened, I could hardly think.”

Harvey rolled Mike onto his back, and plundered his mouth.  “You were brave.”  He nipped his lower lip.  “And unflinching.”  He palmed Mike’s cock and stroked slowly.  “And utterly amazing.”

“Flatterer.”  Mike held Harvey’s face between his hands and returned his kisses, letting out little sighs of pleasure and contentment as he did so. 

Eventually, Mike pulled back, with a look on his face which Harvey could not interpret.  Regret?  Wistfulness?  It was gone so quickly, that Harvey dismissed it.  He asked Mike, “Are you ready for me, sweetheart?”

“Always.”

As Harvey turned to retrieve the ointment from the nightstand, Mike relaxed back against the pillows.  When he turned back, he found Mike watching him with naked hunger in his eyes, and his legs spread invitingly.  Moments later, as Harvey breached him with a slick finger, his whole body seemed to shiver with enjoyment at the familiar, intimate touch. 

He prepared Mike tenderly, taking his time, stoking the flames of their passion higher and higher.  He kissed his thighs and belly, licked and teased his taut nipples, nibbled at his neck and earlobes.  Finally, when he had Mike writhing, moaning, cursing, and begging him to fuck him, he relented.  Kneeling between his spread legs, he repositioned them over his thighs, lined himself up with Mike’s entrance, and pushed inside his lover’s body.

As always, the pressure and heat were exquisite torture.  Biting his own lip, eyes rolling back in his head, he made himself pause, allowing Mike to adjust to his intrusion.  He could tell by the way that Mike began to squirm restlessly that he was ready.  Harvey began the slow, rocking rhythm, as old as time, murmuring endearments as he moved, stopping every so often to steal a kiss.  Mike’s eyes remained open, gaze fixed on Harvey’s.  His legs had locked behind Harvey’s back, and he met Harvey’s thrusts with his own movements, synchronizing perfectly. 

Harvey’s senses were filled with Mike – the feel of him, the sight, the smell, the taste – so much so that his thoughts scattered in disarray.  He moved more strongly now, speeding up, one hand gripping Mike’s bottom, the other braced against the headboard.  “Mike,” he groaned, and mouthed Mike’s temple.  “ _God_.  So sweet.  You feel so good.”  He thrust into him, snapping his hips sharply, again and again, riding the edge of savagery.  “You’re mine,” he rasped.  “Only mine.” 

His orgasm rushed at him like a speeding train.  He clutched Mike to him, shuddering and shaking through his violent release.  “I love you,” he ground out against the top of his head.  “God help me.  I love you.”

As he drifted in his post-orgasmic haze, still buried inside Mike, he reached between them and found him still hard.  Summoning what little energy he still possessed, he stroked Mike expertly, softly encouraging him.  “That’s it, sweetheart.  Come for me.  Let me see you fall apart.”

Moments later, Mike did just that, eyes wide and almost desperate, and locked onto Harvey’s.  When he came, his lids drifted shut, his mouth fell open, and he quivered and shook in Harvey’s embrace.  They clung to one another, until finally Harvey’s spent cock slipped free, causing them both to shiver.

The eventful day, and the brandy, and the ferocity of their lovemaking, all worked together to speed Harvey into slumber.  Just before he slid under, he heard Mike murmur in his ear, “I love you too, my darling.  I always will.  Never forget that.”

Harvey tightened his arms around his love and smiled, more content than he’d ever been in his life.

 

******

 

Harvey slept so soundly, that he didn’t wake up when Mike left the bed, and didn't hear him move about the room.  He slept through breakfast, and might have continued past noon, but a wedge of sunlight crept through the window, slowly edged its way across the floor, and finally touched his cheek and shone in his eyes.

Groaning, he threw up a hand, squinting against the brightness.  “Mike?” he croaked, setting off a throbbing inside his skull.  As hangovers went, the current one did not even rank in his top ten.  Still, it took him longer than it should have to push back the covers, scoot to the edge of the bed, and sit staring at the floor, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

He spoke Mike's name again, not really expecting an answer.  The word fell flatly in the quiet room.  Mike must have risen and dressed hours ago.  Unlike Harvey, he hadn’t drunk half a bottle of brandy.    Harvey blinked and blinked, trying to clear the sleep out of his eyes.  Something felt … not right.  The room felt emptier than it should, which made no sense.

Staggering to the basin, he splashed cool water over his face, and then examined himself in the mirror, hands braced on the edge of the counter.  He looked much the same as he had yesterday, save a bit worse for wear from too much alcohol.  No physical signs marked him as a man changed fundamentally overnight, a man who had revealed his most vulnerable self, had laid his feelings bare to another person.  He'd confessed his love to Mike, and he should be panicking, or cursing himself for a fool, but he felt no inclination to do either.

Quite the contrary.  He felt both lighter and stronger at the same time.  All unexpectedly, he'd gained a mate and a partner, someone to share the burdens of the world, to whom he had willingly given custody and safekeeping of his heart. 

As he stared at his dripping face in the mirror, he marveled at the quixotic workings of fate.  Many years ago, he had accepted that he would go through life alone, and he’d spent little, if any, time dwelling on that inescapable fact.  He'd taken on Mike's case reluctantly, and traveled to Utica with only resentment for the task he'd been assigned.  He never could have imagined that inside the filthy, raving lunatic he took away with him, he would discover someone as sweet, and strong and brave as Mike.

He frowned at himself.  Would he manage to be worthy of such a man as Mike?  He might never have the privilege of declaring his feelings for Mike to the rest of the world, but he vowed right then, in the silence of his bedroom, that he would strive to be the man that Mike deserved.  With a curt nod, he reached for his shaving kit, and began the task of preparing himself for the day – what was left it.

He angled his face this way and that, scraping lather, and rinsing the blade in the basin.  He used a dab of pomade to put his disordered hair to rights, and gave the bed a regretful glance.  How agreeable it would have been, to wake with Mike in his arms, and slowly, sleepily, drive one another mad with spiraling pleasure once more.  There would be plenty more mornings for that, he reasoned, his mouth curving into a smile which felt as if it might stay upon his face forever.

Instead of forever, the smile slipped from his face only moments later, when he opened the doors to the armoire to select his attire.  His coats and trousers were arrayed precisely as he had left them.  Mike's clothes, he saw at once, had vanished.  After several seconds of frozen shock, he yanked open drawer after drawer after drawer.  Every trace of Mike had disappeared, from shirts, to undergarments, to stockings and neckties.  His two pairs of shoes no longer lined up side by side with Harvey's.  His top hat did not share space atop the armoire with Harvey's.   The cane that Harvey had given him did not lean against the wall in the corner of the room.

As queasy understanding took hold, he threw on the first clothing that came to hand.  In trousers and untucked shirt, he hurried out of the room, trying to convince himself that perhaps Mike had merely relocated to his grandmother's house, even though he couldn't understand why he would not have warned Harvey of his intentions.  He pounded down the stairs, strode down the hallway, and burst into the dining room to find Donna and Rachel seated together, gossiping over a pot of tea.

"Where is he?" he demanded, ignoring Rachel's raised eyebrows and scandalized look at his bare feet.

Calmly, Donna set her teacup on the saucer.  The tiny click it made seemed to tear straight into Harvey's nerves.  He clenched his teeth, and gave a harsh exhale through his nose.

"Where is who?" asked Donna.

"You know very well."

"Assuming you are referring to Mike, I do not know where he is.  However – "

Harvey spun away, intending to return to his room, finish dressing, and begin tearing the city apart in search of Mike.  The hand on his arm did not slow him down, but the sharp sound of Donna's voice got through to him before he set a foot on the stairs.

"Harvey.  He left you a letter."

Slowly, he turned to face her, his expression one of deep incredulity.  "He left – "  Harvey's voice cracked, and he was forced to stop, and start again.  "He left me a letter?"  The betraying rise of his voice might have been embarrassing, if he could have spared the smallest grain of attention or care to anything but the sudden, deep chill of premonitory dread.  "Give it to me," he hissed, and watched, frozen in place, while Donna reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a sealed envelope.

With hands that shook, he took the letter from her, broke the seal, and took out two sheets of paper.  He unfolded Mike's letter and read it silently.

_"My Dearest Harvey, This letter is more difficult to write than I had imagined.  I have left you, and I shall not return.  If you give what I have done more than a moment's consideration, I believe you will come to understand that it is for the best, for all concerned._

_"In the short time I have known you, I have seen firsthand the high esteem in which your colleagues, and clients, and friends hold you.  This is all part of – and because of – the fine man you are.    My continued association with you would only bring you as low as I, and I have no wish to be the cause of such a grievous injustice.  I owe you far too much to repay you in such a manner._

_"My abrupt departure may give you cause to doubt it, but I, too, hold you in the highest esteem, and my fondness for you surpasses anything I've felt for another person in the whole of my life.  Our too brief time together is something I have no wish to forget – nor could I, even if I had not been cursed with such a memory as I have.  I meant what I said last night, my dear.  I love you with all my heart.  I am deeply sorry if my decision causes you pain._

_"Please do not be angry with Jessica for carrying out my instructions without your knowledge.  She objected most strenuously, but I have discovered a vein of stubbornness in myself, born of the desire to put your needs above everything else.  She relented, and if asked, will inform you of everything I requested of her._

_"Do not, I pray you, search for me.  You will not find me, and will only frustrate yourself, and harm your new business partnership through your absence.  Build your firm, as you have always dreamt of doing.  My wish for you is that you become as wealthy as the king you should be, while never forgetting the least fortunate among us, and lifting at least some few of them up and out of extremity, as you did for me.  Most of all, be happy.  Find someone who will be kind to you, and with whom you can share your life without being relegated to the shadows._

_"Although we cannot be together, you will forever remain my sun, and moon, and stars.  Once, in my darkness, your voice soothed me, and brought me momentary peace.  As you did for me then, I will quote Mr. Whitman:_

_"'_ For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night, In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me, And his arm lay lightly around my breast - and that night I was happy.'

_"This is how I will remember our time together, for the rest of my days.  Be well.  Mike."_

Numb shock gripped Harvey as he read.  When he had finished, he read Mike's words again, each one seeming to slice into him like a barbed blade.  Dimly, he heard Donna speaking his name.

"Harvey?  What is it?  What has happened?"

He forced his gaze from the painful words of the letter to Donna's face.  It took several seconds, but he managed to drag his thoughts into some semblance of order.  "Mike is gone," he whispered.

"Gone?  Did he move into a hotel?  Or has he decided to live in his grandmother's house after all?"

"He has left."  When she only stared at him in seeming confusion, he forced one more word from his tight throat.  "Me."

"He has … oh."  She took the letter from his nerveless fingers and perused it.  When she was finished she folded it carefully, placed it back in the envelope, and handed it to him.  "Harvey … Ah, damn it.  I don't know what to say.  I'm so sorry.  Perhaps, though, it is for the b –"

"No," he cut her off harshly.  "Say anything, but do not say that.  This is not for the best."  A hot burst of anger surged through him, washing away the numbness, as his mind focused on the letter's mention of Jessica.  "I will find him, and force him to come back to me."  He shook off her restraining hand and headed for the stairs and his room at nearly a run, to finish dressing.

 

******

 

When Harvey arrived at the office, Jessica was meeting with a new client.  His need to question her about Mike warred with his sense of professional propriety.  The cab ride here had served to cool the worst of his rage, but he could feel it building again as he was forced to wait for her.  Thankfully, her meeting was nearly at an end.  Before he abandoned all decorum and stormed into her office, she finished, and accompanied the client to the exit.

She returned, to find him waiting at the door to her office.  "Harvey," she said, with more than a hint of warning in her voice, "I would appreciate if you stopped glaring at me as if you would like to rip my head from my shoulders."

"Where is Mike?  What did he ask of you?  If you wish this partnership to last past the next five minutes, you will give me an answer.  Now."  From the corner of his eye, he saw Harold peek out from behind his desk, and then duck back out of sight.

Jessica drew herself up to her full height and gave Harvey a level stare.  "I will tell you everything I'm able to, but not out here in the hallway."  She gestured toward her office.  "Come inside and sit."

Seething, and not trying to hide it, he preceded her into the office.  She took a seat behind her desk, but he was too keyed up to remain stationary.  He paced restlessly in front of her desk.  Hearing her sigh, his anger spiked.

“You’d better start talking, or so help me …”

“Not until you sit down and give me your full attention.”

He growled deep in his chest, but finally did as she’d asked.  Settling into one of her visitor chairs, he crossed his legs, and lifted one eyebrow, feigning a calm which he did not feel. 

Jessica leaned back in her chair, frowning.  “Mike came to me a few days ago.  He wanted me to prepare some documents for him, and did not wish to ask you.”

“What documents?”

She eyed him, seeming to consider the wisest approach, and then shrugged and pulled open a desk drawer.  Grabbing a stack of papers, she dropped them on the desk, in front of Harvey.  As he started flipping through them, she summarized what he was seeing.

“Mike’s first concern was for his grandmother’s house.  He had no wish to live there, and has put it into trust to the city, to create and maintain a charity home for war veterans.  He wanted to provide an alternative to the asylums, or the street.  With that taken care of, he charged me with seeing to it that his grandmother’s bequests were carried out as outlined in her will.  He also doubled our fees, purchased a lifetime’s worth of dime novel subscriptions for Donna, and left instructions for small but meaningful gifts to be presented to a dozen families and individuals in our neighborhood, meant to ease their burdens in specific ways.”

Harvey gave a low grunt of surprise, but said nothing.

“As for the remainder of his estate, he has placed it in trust, with myself as trustee.”

“Why?” he asked, voice strangled.  “Why not simply take possession of what is now rightfully his?  How will he live?”

“He withdrew a small amount to take with him, enough, I presume, to see him to wherever he is going.  If he requires more, or wishes a portion of it to be disbursed for some cause or another, he will contact me.”

“So, you will be made aware of his location?”

She shook her head, giving him a pitying look.  “He’s arranged a code, of sorts, so that I know it is he with whom I am communicating, either by letter or wire.  We can both assume him intelligent enough to disguise his whereabouts.”  After a moment of silence, she added, “I’m sorry, Harvey.  I gather you cared for him a great deal.”

He let out a humorless chuff of laughter.  “Apparently the feelings were not reciprocated.”

“Don’t think for a minute that he wasn’t hurting over his decision.”

“Right.”  He tossed the stack of documents back onto her desktop, and stood up.  “I have sufficient evidence to disbelieve that.”  He stalked to the door, but before exiting, he looked over his shoulder at her.  “He never should have done this without speaking to me first, and neither should you.  It was not well done, Jessica, not in the least.”

“It’s his money, to do with as he pleases.  You secured him that right in court yesterday.”

“If you think I’m talking about his money, you don’t know me at all.”  He gave his head an impatient shake.  “I’m too angry to continue this discussion with you.  Further, it remains to be seen if we can even work together after this betrayal.”

“Harvey – ”

“No.  I’m through talking.  I’m going home.”

 

******

 

In the end, the thought of returning to the boarding house, of enduring Donna’s pitying looks, and being confronted at every turn with reminders of Mike, proved too grim a prospect.  Instead, Harvey made for the nearest saloon, ordered a bottle of whiskey and a glass, appropriated a shadowy corner table, and settled in for a serious bout of drinking.

His emotions ricocheted back and forth between white hot rage, and deep, self-pitying grief.  He tried to slough it all off, to remind himself who he was, and that he’d been perfectly content with his life before Mike Ross ever appeared.  It was no use.  He’d committed the grave error of making himself vulnerable.  This disaster could not be easily undone. 

The notion of living the remainder of his life without seeing Mike again, without at the least being given the opportunity to ask _why_ , or to demand a more sensible explanation than that damnable letter, infuriated him beyond his ability to bear.  Mike had stated his reasons, but Harvey could rebut them with ease.  He only needed to confront him, and lay out his arguments.  To do that, he must first find him.

The poor quality of the whiskey was giving him a sour stomach.  He set down what was left in his glass, and pushed the bottle away.  A clear head was required, he decided.  Over the years, ally and foe alike had commented upon both his intelligence, and animal cunning.  Additionally, he’d come to know a great deal about Mike during their time together.  Surely, if he put his mind to it, he could reason out where Mike, in his current emotional state, might have taken himself.

Harvey signaled the waiter, and ordered himself some food, and a pot of tea.  He wasn’t hungry, but he forced himself to chew and swallow the simple fare provided.  He had emptied his plate, and the tea had cooled to room temperature, before realization struck.

_Home._

Where else would a wounded animal go to recuperate?  Home.

Rosswood.

A hard smile curved Harvey’s mouth.  Of course.  That had to be it.  Mike had returned to Rosswood.  That is where Harvey would find him.  He would get the truth out of him, and convince him of the folly of his decision, even if he had to –

Harvey halted the direction of his thoughts at that point.  In another situation, the use of his fists to ease his frustration and teach his opponent a lesson might have felt warranted.  Not with Mike, though.  Never Mike.  No matter how angry he might be at him, he would never raise a hand in anger toward Mike.

His voice though … he would most assuredly raise that, loudly and repeatedly.  In a moment of drunken foolishness, in the heat of passion, he’d confessed his love to Mike.  He’d revealed his feelings, and then had them thrown straight back in his face.  He could not strike Mike in anger, but he would make him pay dearly for his transgressions … before he forgave him, and welcomed him back into his life.

To Rosswood, then.  He paid for his meal, and drink, and strode out of the saloon with renewed purpose in his steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	16. Chapter 16

Anxious as he was to begin the daylong journey to Rosswood, and despite his parting words to Jessica, Harvey had several pressing matters to settle for clients if he did not wish to risk losing them.  The delay was excruciating, but if Mike was indeed at Rosswood, Harvey could only assume that he would be there for some time.

Finally, two full days after Mike's disappearance, he was able to board the early morning train to Albany.  It was another fine, Spring day, the sort that usually lifted his spirits, but which today had no discernible effect upon him.

From Albany, the journey required that he cross the river by ferry, which had just left the dock.  He waited two hours for its return, pacing and growing increasingly irate.  Eventually, the small boat returned, and he crossed over the Hudson to the hamlet of Greenbush. 

Seeking to avoid making the remainder of the journey in vain, and reasoning that Mike would have had to stock up on food and supplies, Harvey made his way to the dry goods store, and questioned the proprietor, and a handful of the half dozen or so residents who were inside the store, or seated on the bench out front.

The store’s owner eyed him skeptically when asked about Rosswood, giving Harvey’s suit and top hat a squinty-eyed onceover while he scratched his greying beard.  “Place is haunted.  That’s what folks say, leastwise.”

“Haunted?” interjected the septuagenarian lounging near the barrels of flour and corn meal.  “Cursed, more like.  That place never liked those Rosses.  First it took the parents.  I heard it drove the young master to madness.”

Harvey tightened his jaw, striving to remain calm.  “It is the young master I’m seeking out.  Has he been in here in the past day or two?”

Still unsmiling, the proprietor gave a reluctant nod.  “I suppose so.  He came by two days ago, just before I closed up for the day.  Didn’t say much.  I sold him a few supplies.  Not enough to last more than three or four days.  He bought three bottles of whiskey, and all the laudanum I had.  Must have been feeling poorly.”

The septuagenarian added, “Not too poorly.  Bertie at the stable says he rented a horse for the ride out there.  Don’t know why he didn’t go by boat, like a sensible person.”

At this news, Harvey’s anxiety increased.  It had to be Mike.  After his parents’ death, of course he wouldn’t wish to set foot on a boat.  And all that laudanum …

“I need to get to Rosswood tonight,” he said.  “What is the quickest means of doing so?”

The proprietor glanced out the door.  “My nephew Philip can take you by sloop.  That’s him out there, dozing in the sun.  Worthless whelp.”

Harvey thanked him, and went out to prod the whelp to wakefulness.

 

******

 

The sun had dropped to just above the horizon by the time the small craft made it down the river to the dock at Rosswood.  Even preoccupied as he was, Harvey could not help but be impressed by the lovely setting. 

The river wound through spreading ash and chestnut trees, covered with new, Spring leaves.  Chattering birds fluttered and hopped through beams of late afternoon sunlight, which dappled both river and shore, while squirrels chased one another along branches, shaking the leaves.  The air was cooler than back in the city, but clean and bracing. 

Harvey could understand Mike’s fondness for this place.  Everything about it spoke of peace, and the beauty of nature.  In truth, the only thing out of place was Harvey’s agitation and simmering anger.  He counselled himself to remain calm, but the shock of Mike’s disloyalty stayed with him nevertheless.  Had he thought about it more deeply, he would have recognized that his disordered emotions had more to do with hurt than anger.  Anger, though was easier at the moment.

At the dock now, he could see the main house, which was set back some distance from the river, large and elegant, but not as opulent as some of the other estates in the Hudson Valley.  As they’d rounded the final bend in the river, Harvey had spotted smoke rising in the deepening gloom, a hopeful sign that he had guessed correctly, and would find Mike at Rosswood.  Philip – who had been silent for most of the journey – leapt to the dock to tie the vessel up. 

“Should I wait here?” he asked Harvey.  “Or are you staying the night?”

“I hope I shall not be staying, and that I have an additional passenger for the return trip.  Please wait for my word.”  As an afterthought, he asked, “Can you navigate the river at night?”

“Course I can.  I can find my way blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back.”  He frowned suddenly, eyes widening as he stared over Harvey’s shoulder.  “What the devil … Looks like the house is on fire.  I knew it was cursed.”

Harvey whirled back to stare at the stately home.  Philip was correct.  Flames licked out the windows of the upper story.  A brisk wind off the river appeared to be rapidly fanning the flames higher.

“Mike,” he whispered, dread filling him.  Without another thought for the sloop, or Philip, Harvey took off for the house at a dead run.  With each step he took over the damp ground, the flames seemed to multiply, and shoot toward the sky.  “No.  Ah, God, no, no, no.”

Reaching the front door, he found it securely locked, and let out a vicious curse.  He applied his shoulder to it, again and again, but it would not budge.  An explosion sounded above him, and shards of glass rained down around him.

“Mike!” he called.  “Goddamn it.  Mike, are you in there?  Open the front door.”  He pounded futilely. 

No response came from inside the house, and his panic doubled.  Perhaps Mike could not answer.  Perhaps he had succumbed to the flames and billowing smoke already.  Growing increasingly desperate, Harvey raced around the house, searching for another way in.  The servants’ entrance in the back was similarly barred.  The sound of the fire was a steady roar now, like an angry, ravening beast.

Stark fear leant Harvey inhuman strength.  Using his shoulder once more, he rammed the door, felt it shudder, and redoubled his efforts.  By the third try, with his shoulder growing numb, the lock splintered slightly.  One more assault should have it open.

“Sir!  Don’t do that.  The fire is too high.  We must get back to the river.”

An ember singed Harvey’s forehead, but he was undeterred.  He reared back, and with one last, mighty surge, hit the door with all his strength.  It gave way.  He staggered forward and had the barest of moments to feel victorious as the fire appeared to retreat.  A deafening roar sounded, and the fire rushed out at him in an enormous sheet of flame.  He dropped to the ground, feeling heat sear his back.  Something struck his head, and he felt no more.

 

******

 

Even with his eyes closed, Harvey gradually became aware of a bright light source, wavering and flickering nearby.  He was lying on his back, on what felt like cold, damp grass.  Sharp pain throbbed in his skull, and his lungs felt tight.  He coughed harshly, and let out an involuntary groan, setting off waves of pain.

“Hush, now.  Be still.”

The voice was male, and unfamiliar.  Harvey forced his eyes open.  Two lit torches, stuck into the ground, leapt and danced in a light breeze.  Beyond them, he spotted a dock, and a slow-moving river.  What was this place?  Panic touched him, and he tried to sit up, but a firm hand on his shoulder pushed him back to the ground.

“You’ll do better if you don’t move for now.” 

Harvey frowned.  “Who the devil are you?” he rasped, setting off another round of coughing, accompanied by flaring pain in his head.

“My name is Dr. Van Dijk.  The constable brought me out here because of the body, but I figured I’d have a look at you too, while I was here.”

“Here?  Where is here?  Why do I need a doctor?”

“To answer your second question first, you need a doctor because you took a nasty blow to the head, resulting in a concussion.  As you can probably tell from the soreness in your throat, you also inhaled a fair amount of smoke.  You have minor burns on you face and hands, but you were lucky that young Philip Janssen was quick to pull you clear of the house.  And ‘here’ is where you asked Philip to convey you.”  At Harvey’s continued frown, he added, “Rosswood.  Or what’s left of it.”

A fresh burst of pain filled Harvey’s head as memory returned in a rush.  He’d come here to find Mike.  Instead, he’d found a house engulfed in flame.  Ignoring Dr. Van Dijk’s objections, and throwing off his restraining hand, he sat up, trying to orient himself.  The inky sky brightened slightly as a sliver of sunrise appeared on the horizon, clearly visible beyond the blackened, smoldering ruins of what had once been a large house.  He struggled to his feet, to get a better look.

A crowd of men milled about near the house, keeping a careful distance as beams continued to shift and collapse, sending embers swirling up into the early morning air.  Behind them, the house was a complete loss, burned down to the foundations.  The stench of smoke hung heavily in the air.

“Did –”  The question died in Harvey’s throat.  He had to know, though, so he tried again.  “Did they find anyone inside?”  He turned his fierce gaze upon the doctor, and though light remained limited, he clearly saw the pity on his face.

Dr. Van Dijk set a hand on Harvey’s arm, and gently turned him to face the dock.  Half a dozen boats had joined Philip’s, bobbing and shifting in the current.  On the dock itself, a man-shaped form lay, covered in an oilskin cloth.  Harvey’s heart constricted inside his chest

“Near as we can tell, he was on the stairs, probably seeking to escape, when either flame or smoke overcame him.  The stairs collapsed beneath him, sending him toward the front door, which is the only reason the men were able to retrieve the body.  I believe he was insensible as he lay there.  It is unlikely that he felt the flames as they consumed him.”

Harvey’s legs had begun moving as if on their own volition, carrying him in several shaky steps to the dock.  The doctor was right at his elbow.

“Show him to me,” whispered Harvey, unwilling to peel back the cloth himself.  “I need to know if it is really him.”

“By ‘him’, I assume you mean Michael Ross?  The constable has already confirmed his identity, based on the statements of those who saw him in town two days ago.  No need for you to see him this way.”

Harvey barely heard him.  He took one more step, and knelt in front of the body.  The stench of burnt flesh nearly overwhelmed him, but he held his breath, and drew back the covering. 

The doctor had been right.  He should have spared himself this last look at Mike.  He had been burnt beyond recognition, leaving only charred bones and scraps of blackened, burnt fabric.  An animal noise of pure grief burst from Harvey’s throat.  He thrust a handkerchief to his mouth and nose, lurched to his feet, and staggered back, retching.

“Come away,” said the doctor kindly.  “Sit and rest.  I’ll get you some water.  The constable will want to talk to you, to get your statement, to corroborate Philip’s account of events.”

Numbly, Harvey sat.  His head swam, from his injury, and the smoke clogging his lungs, and memory of that … _thing_ … that had once been his Mike.  His love.

_Don’t think,_ he ordered himself.  _And by God, do not feel.  Stay numb, so that nothing can touch you._

_Nothing will touch you ever again._

 

******

 

After two weeks of travel, by train, and stagecoach, and then train again, Mike was accustomed to the disconcerting rush through space, the rhythmic clacking of wheels over iron rails, and the shifting faces in the train car.  People disembarked, and new people boarded, and the miles between him and New York grew and grew.

He didn’t want to think about Harvey, and what he must be thinking at that moment, but his thoughts turned constantly in that direction just the same.  He missed him, and dear God, it hurt, but he did not regret his decision.  Harvey would get over him, and forget about him soon enough.  Better to end it when he had, rather than stay any longer, and watch as Harvey’s name and reputation were dragged through the mud.

The conductor appeared in the car, announcing, “Carson City.  Next stop, Carson City.”

They’d left Salt Lake City two days ago.  After the altitude there, and before that, in Denver, the tracks had descended to flat desert, interspersed with occasional stands of scrubby pine.  The temperature outside alternated between blazing hot during the day, and bone-chilling at night. 

The screeching squeal of brakes sounded throughout the train car, and they slowed to a near crawl as they entered the town.  To Mike, Carson City appeared much as every other town he'd seen out west thus far, with hastily erected wooden buildings, a dusty main street rutted from stagecoach and wagon wheels, populated by hard-faced men in rough trousers and shirts, leather vests, well-worn boots, and heads adorned by bowlers or flat-brimmed hats.  The woman appeared to be either employees of one of the several saloons, or hardy farm women, wearing bonnets to keep the sun off their faces, and dresses as drab and sturdy as the men’s clothes.

In his mind, he compared the reality of what his eyes perceived, to the descriptions given in the dime westerns he had consumed at Donna's boarding house.  Some things matched up, but most did not.  He’d long suspected that many of the authors had never actually traveled past the Mississippi River, and had created their characters either straight from their imagination, or based them on newspaper accounts, or other writers’ works.

As he stepped off the train, cane in one hand, and made for the baggage car, he noted the dry air, and the hot sun that made him perspire under his coat.  Although of lesser altitude than Salt Lake City or Denver, the city was located in a high valley.  To the west, he could see Lake Tahoe, and behind that, the foothills of the Sierra Nevada range, which by contrast to the Rockies, appeared as hardly more than high hills.  Except for the environs of the huge lake, brown was the predominant color.  Here and there, scatterings of green vegetation broke up the monotony. 

Mike waited while the porter unloaded the passengers’ luggage.  When he spotted his valise, he limped slowly overly to retrieve it and pressed a dollar into the man’s palm.  “Can you tell me,” he asked, “where I can find the Silver Lady Saloon?”

The man raised an eyebrow, examining Mike’s fancy – by local standards – suit and top hat.  “Right on Main Street.  Can’t miss it.”

Allowing himself to be carried along by the small crowd of passengers who, presumably, were likewise seeking accommodations, or perhaps meeting a family member as they returned home, Mike eyed the rough wooden buildings.  Most looked as if they had been thrown up overnight, and would fall down in the first strong windstorm.  This surprised him.  He’d heard plenty of tales about the famed Comstock Lode, and the wealth of both gold and silver found therein.  Perhaps those who had profited from the mines had chosen to reside elsewhere.

He passed a dry goods store, and made a mental note to pay it a visit later.  If he had any hope of blending in, he would need to exchange his citified attire for some more closely approximating that of the local population. 

He easily spotted the Silver Lady – “Saloon, Hotel, and Gambling Hall,” as it announced itself on the brightly painted sign over the entrance.  Pushing through a set of swinging doors, he ignored the sudden stares sent his way, disregarded the half of the large space compromising saloon and card tables, and made for the front desk of what was presumably the hotel.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he greeted the young lady stationed there, politely removing his hat, and scrupulously averting his gaze from her ample bosom, which spilled from a low-cut bodice which was little more than a fancy, purple satin corset.  “I am looking for a lady by the name of Stella.  Is she available to speak with me?”

She smirked at him, appearing on the verge of laughter.  “And whom shall I tell her is calling?”  She did laugh now, a high-pitched giggle which had Mike blushing.  Evidently, she considered him to be the butt of some private joke. 

“My name is Mike Ross, and I'm a friend of Trevor Evans.”

“Wait here, if it please your lordliness.”  She giggled again, and scurried, in low-heeled satin slippers, to the end of a short hallway, where she rapped on a closed door.  “Stella!  You gotta see what the wind blew in.”

Mike wilted, setting down his luggage, and used his handkerchief to dab perspiration from his face.  He waited less than a minute, while the front desk clerk held a whispered conversation through the half-opened door with a person who was, presumably, the Stella he sought.  Finally, the young woman turned and crooked a finger at him.

“Her ladyship will receive you.”  She executed a clumsy curtsy.

Mike bit back a sigh, picked up his valise, and walked down the hallway, all too conscious of his limp.  His leg had stiffened up on the long trip here.  Laudanum would have helped with the pain, but he refused to allow that poison to touch his lips again.

The room he entered was part accounts office, and part boudoir.  Stella was dressed more conservatively than the young woman – whose name he had never learned – but despite her chin-high collar and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, she exuded a sultry air of sexuality, which was apparent to Mike, but to which he was entirely immune.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he said, extending a hand.

She laid her glasses on her desk, closed the ledger book which she had been perusing, stood, and stalked toward him to talk his hand in both of hers.  Her blonde hair was caught up in a loose chignon, with tendrils dangling artlessly to either side of her face.  Mike estimated her age as somewhere between thirty and fifty.  She appeared both soft and hard at the same time, and her dark eyes regarded him so acutely that he ducked his head.

“So,” she finally said, releasing his hand and gesturing for him to be seated, “you know Trevor.”

“Since we were boys.”

“He rode through here not one week ago.  Had a young lady with him.  Claimed she was his bride.”

Aware that he was being tested, Mike nodded.  “That would be Jenny.  I’ve known her as long as I’ve know Trevor.  I’m happy to hear they made it safely out of New York.”

Stella glanced at his clothes, and back at his face.  “Are you planning to join his merry little gang of outlaws?”

“What?  No.”  Mike had guessed at Trevor’s current occupation, but now it was confirmed.

“No wish to get that pretty face of yours on a Wanted poster?”

“My plans lie in a different direction.”

“Hm.  Interesting.”  She reached for an engraved silver box on the corner of her desk, extracted a slim cigar, offered him one (which he refused), and lit the tip.  She inhaled deeply, blew a perfect smoke ring at the ceiling, and exhaled the remaining smoke.  “You’re not what I expected.”

He laughed, and it came out sounding bitter.  “I suppose I rarely am.”  He watched her watch him for another minute, trying not to grimace at the cloud of smoke which filled up the room.  “So, Stella – may I call you that?”

“You may.  It’s not my given name, but it’s what I go by now.”

“I see.  Well, Stella, can you direct me to Trevor’s current location, or am I just wasting my time?”

“I cannot.  No, wait, before you go storming out of here in a fit of temper, let me finish.  I would not give up his location, even if I knew it – which I don’t.  But I will happily send a message to him, and let him know you are here, waiting for word.”

“Oh.  That would be – ”    

“For a fee.”  She held out her palm.  “Twenty dollars, please.”

Mike hesitated, but quickly realized he was not being given a choice.  He fumbled in his pocket for a gold twenty-dollar double eagle coin, and passed it across the desk to her.

She examined it, bit it, and slid it into a desk drawer.  “Anything special you want me to say to him?”

“No.  Just that I've arrived, and wish to join him, and that I'll wait for him here in Carson City.  Which brings up another question:  have you any rooms for the next … well, for however long it will take to hear back from Trevor?”

She gave him a wicked smile.  “You sure you wouldn’t rather stay at the Ormsby, down the street?  You might find it more respectable than my place.”

He shook his head, and offered her a smile back.  “I’m not one to be concerned with respectability, Ma’am.  All I’m hoping for is a clean bed, a small table to upon which to do some writing, and plenty of privacy.  Can the Silver Lady offer me that?”

“She can.  If you are so inclined, she can also offer you the company – for the right price – of an assortment of delightful young woman possessed of extraordinary skills.  The rate for the first appointment is discounted for paying guests.”

He could feel himself blushing again.  “That won’t be … uh … no.  No, thank you.”

Something that might have been understanding flashed in her eyes, but she only shrugged.  “I see. If you change your mind …”

He gave a curt nod, not trusting his voice.  Even had she offered up all manner of beautiful men, the answer would still be – would always be – a resounding “No.”  He could not imagine himself with any other person but Harvey, now, or for the rest of his life.  Perhaps that would change in time, but the hurt of their separation was too fresh, and his memories too vivid.  “You’ll let me know as soon as you hear from Trevor?” he asked.

“I will.  In the meantime, do enjoy your stay at the Silver Lady.  Be sure to try the card tables, and other games of chance.”

He could have told her that he was the last person in the world whom she would wish to sit down for a game of poker at her tables, but he only nodded noncommittally.  “Thank you, Stella.  Good afternoon.

 

******

 

Mike spent the next few days occupied with purchasing several ready-to-wear outfits from the dry goods store, acquainting himself with the local cuisine (beef steak, wild rabbit, mutton, beans, beans, and beans), and walking the length and breadth of the town.  One day, he packed a lunch, rented a horse, and rode to Lake Tahoe, where he dined _alfresco_ on cold mutton and sourdough bread. 

In some ways, the vista and beauties of nature at lakeside reminded him of Rosswood, although in truth, it was not the same at all.  He grew wistful for his childhood home, but was indifferent to the notion of ever returning there.  It had proved too unlucky a place for him, and he had no wish to tempt fate by putting himself in her crosshairs again.  Which is why he'd signed over the deed to Logan before he left New York, and included twenty dollars, out of what was likely a misplaced sense of pity.  Maybe Logan would turn himself around, and make something decent of his life if given the chance.

Most of that week in Carson City he spent at the table in his room, scratching away determinedly with a fountain pen, letting his surroundings fall away from him as he composed his first work of fiction, which he had tentatively titled, “Bandit Bill, Masked Spectre of the Sierra Nevada.”  He’d read enough dime novels to be familiar with the basic formula.  Additionally, he had heard enough tales of Trevor’s misdeeds – and would likely hear plenty more in the months to come – that the plot, and setting, and action flowed from his pen with seeming ease. 

The character of Bandit Bill, although superficially based on Trevor, took his deeper characteristics from another source.  He was dark, handsome, mysterious, disguised much of the time as the finest of gentlemen, elegant and debonair.  When need arose, however, he donned a mask and rougher clothing, and vanquished villains with fists and his trusty Colt revolvers.

By the time a telegram finally arrived for Mike from Trevor and Jenny, the story was well over halfway finished.  If he could find a publisher, and perhaps turn it into a series, he figured he could support himself, and forestall the need to contact Jessica for additional funds.  He’d arranged things so that the transfer could be accomplished while keeping his whereabouts secret.  He feared, though, that Harvey would figure it out just the same, and he intended to avoid this, whatever it took.

Mike had made his choice.  No other course of action seemed feasible.  Life without Harvey might be grim and utterly joyless, but watching him suffer because of Mike sounded even worse.  If he couldn’t be with him, at least he could lose himself for a time writing stories about him.  No one would be hurt by that, he reasoned, and he might retain his hold on sanity in the process.

Trevor’s telegram divulged his current location:  Millerton, California.  Mike had no clue what he might find there – other than his old friend, and his new bride.  He couldn’t go back, though, so the only choice was to go forward.  The next day, he packed up his few belongings, paid his hotel bill, thanked Stella, and boarded another train heading west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who, me? Back so soon? Yep, I'm be-boppin' along with this thing, cranking out the words, getting close to the end. Four more chapters to go (give or take, depending upon my level of verbosity). Another chapter may possibly appear this weekend. Gotta ride out the muse, before she leaves town again.

**New York 1870**

The whore Harvey had brought home the night before was long gone when he awoke, sent away with bruises that would likely cause him to lose at least one night's work.  Harvey felt no guilt over this.  He'd paid the whore well enough.  

After fucking the boy hard for close to an hour, he should have been loose and relaxed, but as he did so often lately, he woke up angry, and moved into his day with a frown on his face, muscles tight from the rage that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface.

Dressed and downstairs, he poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and scowled across the table at Donna, the only other member of the household up at this hour.  "You've burned the coffee again.  How the devil do you expect me to drink this utter swill?"

His harsh rebuke did not visibly faze her.  Her gaze drifted up from the pages of her dime novel, and she answered his scowl with a bland smile.  "I don't expect you to drink it at all, unless you choose to.  If you speak to me in that tone again, however, I may be tempted to empty the pot over your head."

He gave a disbelieving click of his tongue, and took another sip, retaining eye contact with her, and silently daring her to comment.  Finally, evidently satisfied that she'd won the point, she turned back to her reading.  

Meanwhile, Harvey occupied himself with his breakfast of shirred eggs and sliced ham.  The food was probably excellent, as it generally was at Donna's table, but he barely tasted it.  His thoughts raced forward to the day ahead of him.  He was scheduled for depositions for most of the morning.  Louis wanted to meet with him over lunch, regarding some captain of industry he needed help convincing to fire his attorney, and hire Specter & Pearson.  

That left him the afternoon, until whatever ungodly hour he felt able to leave the office, to catch up on his correspondence, the drafting of legal documents, and fixing the myriad errors of young Mr. Sorkin, the disaster of an associate Jessica had insisted he take on.  If only he'd known what a gem Harold Gunderson would turn out to be, he might have had the forethought to hire him before Jessica snatched him up.

"This," murmured Donna, "is quite extraordinary."

Thinking to make up for his earlier snappishness, Harvey asked, trying to sound as if he cared, "What is?"

"This book."

He nearly groaned aloud.  It was too early in the morning for another panegyric to the underappreciated art form which was the American dime novel.  Still, his gaze sought out the cover of its own volition.  _Bandit Bill, Masked Spectre of the_ _Sierra Nevada_ _,_ _by Michael Jameson_ , the book announced, accompanied by a lurid woodcut of the bandit himself, firing his weapons.  "Another modern classic?" he asked tartly.

"Oh, it's rather good.  A cut above the usual.  That's not what is so extraordinary, though.  Listen to this."  She read from the book, “’Bill was a man of especially pleasing countenance, with eyes dark as a moonless night, and wide mouth which could as easily stretch into a smile – wicked or gentle – as it could tighten in anger or fierce determination.  His nature was much the same as the smile.  To those he cherished, he was the noblest, most steadfast, and most tender of friends.  To his enemies, he was biblical retribution come to life, sweeping them away with as little compassion as the Red Sea, or a mighty whirlwind in the desert.’”  She closed the book, using one finger to keep her place.

Harvey looked at her blankly.  “And?”

“Don’t you see?”

“What?  That you’ve discovered the most overwrought, nonsensical prose in the history of humankind?”

“The description doesn’t remind you of anyone?”

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin.  “Should it?”

“My God, you are so dense sometimes.”  She turned the covere toward him, and tapped it for emphasis.  “See that?  ‘Masked Spectre.’  Spectre, Harvey.  Or, should I say, Harvey Specter?”

“I fail to see – ”

“And the author’s name.  Michael Jameson?  He’s made it absurdly obvious, to anyone with half a mind.”

Harvey held onto his temper by the slenderest of threads.  “If you’re about to suggest what I think you are …”

“Mike’s father’s name was James.  Jame _son_.  He put your name in the title.  The description of you is spot on.”  She waited a few seconds, but when he didn’t respond, added, “He’s still alive, Harvey.  He’s out there somewhere, and he wrote this book.  I have a lifetime subscription to this San Francisco publisher – a publisher I’d never heard of before, mind you – thanks to him.  He’s sending us a message.”

Harvey stood slowly, and straightened his suit coat.  “What you’re suggesting is impossible.  Mike is dead.  I saw his body with my own eyes, and believe me, there is no way in hell he walked away from that.”

“You saw a body burnt beyond recognition.”

“Half a dozen of the local men saw him in town, and confirmed that he was heading to Rosswood.  It could have been no one else.  Further, the money he left behind has not been touched.”

“But, Harvey – ”

“But, nothing!” he roared at her.  “Mike Ross is dead, and in his grave.  It has been two years, and I find it beyond obscene that you would possess the gall to torment me in this manner.  He’s dead, and nothing will bring him back to me.  Further, I forbid you to mention his name to me again.”

Her eyes flashed, and it occurred to him that she was as angry as he.  “Nobody forbids me anything,” she stated quietly.  “Especially not in my own home.”

“Then maybe it is past time I search for other accommodations.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t done so sooner.  Lord knows you’re wealthy enough by now.  Shall I put out the ‘Room to Let’ sign?”

Harvey’s anger lessened slightly at her words.  Was he ready to leave this place which had been his home for nearly a decade?  He’d thought about it a few times over the past two years.  Donna was right:  the enormous success of Specter & Pearson had fattened his bank account to the extent that he could begin to think about relocating to one of the expensive homes on Fifth Avenue.  

Such a move would bring its own burdens and responsibilities.  If he joined the fashionable set there, he would be expected to find a wife, and raise a family.  The thought of both bored him beyond words.  He would lose his freedom, and it would become virtually impossible to smuggle in his paid companion of the moment.  

He let out a gusty sigh.  “Donna … I apologize for my sharp tone.  You know this is a sore spot with me.”

She set the book down, her expression softening.  “I’m sorry, too.  I realize these past two years haven’t been easy for you.”

“Nonsense.  I’m perfectly fine.”

“Right.  Which is why you all but murdered that poor boy last night.  Oh, don’t give me that look.  We all heard him yelling the house down.”

“Those were screams of pleasure.  Not to mention, he was more than adequately compensated for his time.”

“You should find another outlet for your anger.”

“What anger?”

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head.  “Denial is not your best look, my friend.”

Ignoring her words, he reached to the sideboard for his hat, and gave her a parting nod.  “I shall likely miss dinner again tonight.”

“I assumed as much.  I’ll leave you something in the food warmer.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a good day at work.”

“Find me another warm body for tonight.  Someone new.”

Donna shook her head sadly, but replied, “Fine.  You can’t keep damaging the merchandise, though.”

He wasn’t prepared to admit that she was right, only replying, “Same caveats:  no blonds, and no blue eyes.”

As he stalked toward the front door, he heard her mutter something else about denial.

******

**California**

_The Masked Spectre_ _Chases the_ _Devil – Book_ _Four_ _of the Adventures of Bandit Bill_

_Tendrils of mist licked their way through the Sierra Nevada foothills, twining through stunted_ _grey_ _pine_ _,_ _buckeye, and_ _flowering_ _manzanita._ _Jagged rock formations_ _guarded the_ _narrow_ _valley_ _like fierce sentinels_ _._ _A_ _restless horse whickered_ _, perhaps spooked by a_ _hunting coyote or bobcat, whose scent wafted in on the light mor_ _ning breeze._

_Bandit Bill crouched in his hiding spot, Colt six-shooters held loosely but confidently in his strong, calloused hands._ _If his informant was correct, trouble_ _would soon pass through_ _the quiet valley – trouble which went by the name of_ _“_ _Deacon’s Devils.”_ _This band of miscreants had been terrorizing the neighborhood for_ _three months, with no end in sight.  Though they might be the most ruthless group of outlaws Bill had yet encountered, he felt no fear, only rugged determination_ _…_

(No, that wasn’t right.)

_…he felt only stalwart extermina –_

“Damnation!”  Mike threw aside his pen and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his burning eyes.  In the next room, Trevor Jr. squalled out his displeasure over whatever his latest complaint might be.  

It was not the child who had interrupted Mike’s writing, so much as his cramping fingers, sore shoulders, and exhausted mind.  He’d had another bad night, plagued with both dreams and memories, and had risen before dawn to exorcise his demons with his latest tale.  He’s been at it for three hours, scribbling with fevered intensity, words flowing out of him like a raging torrent.  The torrent had just dried up, and so Junior’s cries were more welcome than not.

Mike massaged his knee for several seconds, rose stiffly, grabbed his cane, and limped out to the main room of the small homestead.  Jenny sat rocking slowly in the chair Trevor had built for her, holding Junior to her breast, and humming a lullaby to the now quiet toddler, who eyed Mike disinterestedly, thumb stuck in his mouth.  Jenny offered Mike a tired smile.

“Did he wake you?  I’m sorry.  I slept harder and longer than I should have.  This new one is stealing all my strength.”  She patted her swelling belly, and grabbed Junior’s twitching leg before he could kick his future brother or sister.

“I was awake already.”

“Hmm.  I heard you thrashing last night.  More bad dreams?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.  What do you want for breakfast?”

“You don’t have to do that.  Take Junior, and let me cook.”

Junior clung more tightly to her neck.  Mike laughed.  “I’m not coming between him and you.  If he’s anything like his father, he might just shoot me between the eyes.”

Jenny frowned, appearing truly troubled, and Mike regretted his attempt at humor.

“He’s a good man, Mike.”

He busied himself lighting the stove, preparing the coffee pot, and assembling ingredients.  They were getting low on flour and lard, he saw, and their other foodstuffs weren’t faring much better.  “We’ll have to take the wagon into town soon.  We’re down to almost nothing.  Will griddle cakes suit?”

She curled her lip, but nodded just the same.  They’d had the same breakfast for nearly a week running.  “If Trevor doesn’t get back on time, we’ll be forced to sell one or more of the animals.”

Mike poured flour, sugar, baking powder and salt into a bowl.  “Has Mabel been milked yet?”

“I’ll get to her soon.  There’s still a bit left from yesterday.  It’ll do for cooking.”

Mike added milk, and one egg, and stirred the mixture as he thought about their current dilemma.  “I’ll remind you,” he said slowly, “that we needn’t go hungry.  In case it has slipped your mind, I’m a wealthy man.  One telegram to New York, and we can eat like kings and queens.”  He was also awaiting payment for his third book, which had been promised to him two months ago.  That would have gone a good long way towards keeping them in supplies, but he didn’t mention that.

“No,” she said decisively, setting Junior on his feet.  The boy wobbled, held his arms out for balance, and lurched unsteadily for several steps before sitting on his plump bottom.  “Between your book earnings, and Trevor’s … other earnings, we are doing well enough.  You told us from the outset that your trust fund was a last resort.  I understand perfectly well why.  Despite all your safeguards, if that lady lawyer wires you money, it may be possible for others to find you.  We must, the three of us, all consider ourselves fugitives, and act accordingly.  Besides, Trevor is due back next week, loaded with cash like always.  We’ll make the payment – and late fees – on the note – ”

“Wait.  You’re behind on your payments to the bank?  Why didn’t you say something?”

“You’ve been so wrapped up in your latest novel, I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.  It’s Trevor’s problem anyway, mine and his.  You’ve contributed plenty.”

“I could contribute so much more.”

She held a hand over the cooking surface, checking the temperature, and threw a few more sticks of wood into the belly of the stove.  “It won’t come to that.  Let us both practice patience.  Unless the sheriff arrives with a notice of eviction, we’ll just go on as we have been.”  Not getting an immediate answer, she held his face between her hands and made him look at her.  “Agreed?”

He forced a smile to his face.  “Agreed.  Now get out of my way so I can get us all fed.”

******

The chores were finished – eggs gathered, Mabel milked, goats and pigs fed – and Mike and Jenny had dragged chairs outside into the late Spring sunshine.  Jenny rocked and knitted, while Junior sat in the dirt and played with a wooden horse that Trevor had brought for him on his last trip home.  Around them, the San Joaquin valley spread, lush and green, with wildflowers blooming, and insects and birds flitting about.  

High overhead, a red-tailed hawk hunted.  Mike kept an eye on it, conscious of their three laying hens and one rooster pecking lazily in their enclosure.  The hawk descended suddenly, some distance away, and swooped back up with what was likely a field mouse clutched in its talons.  Mike relaxed.

Their land was far enough removed from town and other farms that they had complete privacy.  The closest neighbor was nearly an hour’s ride from them, and Stockton was two hours to the north.  It wasn’t Rosswood, but as far as Mike was concerned, it was close enough.  At times, it felt strange – and unnerving – to live so isolated.  At his worst moments, he feared for the safety of Jenny and her child, but they had two repeating rifles on the premises, one of which now lay on the ground by his side.  Although Mike rarely fired a gun anymore, he had been a crack shot during his time in the army.

“I’m bored,” Jenny announced suddenly, dropping her knitting into her lap.  “Which is wrong.  I’m a farm wife.  I thought I was supposed to be busy from sunup to sundown.”

Mike chuckled.  “Are you complaining?  I doubt you’ll have much free time when the new baby arrives.  Plus, you’ve got me.  I’ve developed into a decent cook, and I actually enjoy the chores.  It’s good to get out of my head, and perform more physical tasks.  Also, this isn’t exactly a working farm, is it?  We’d need to put in some crops.”

She wrinkled her nose.  “We can’t even afford the seeds right now.  It’s probably too late in the season to get started anyway.  More importantly, I don’t know the first thing about growing things in the dirt.  So …”

“So, sitting in the sun all afternoon it is.”  

Jenny’s wistful gaze at the horizon sharpened, and she sat up straighter.

“What is it?” asked Mike.

“Someone’s coming.”

He saw it now, movement on the narrow road which cut through fields of tall grass.  A horse and rider, approaching fast.  Mike stood slowly, and reached out a hand to help Jenny to her feet.  “Take Junior and get inside.”

“What about you?”

Mike lifted the rifle and held it loosely, in a manner which was non-threatening, but could quickly be shifted to a more aggressive stance.  “Go on, now.  I’ll be fine.  I’m sure it’s just one of the neighbors, stopping by to say hello.”

Jenny chewed her lip nervously, but finally nodded and grabbed Junior’s hand, hauling him into the house, and closing the door.  He knew she’d be watching through the window, and would provide additional firepower if that proved to be necessary.

As the rider neared, Mike’s nerves tightened in a manner he had not experienced since the war.  He breathed slowly, in and out, knowing that his best course, whatever transpired, was to remain calm.  The rider lifted his hat and waved it in the air, three times left, and two times right.  Mike’s tension dissolved as he recognized the signal Trevor had devised when he left for his last job.

“It’s Trevor,” Mike called over his shoulder.  “He’s back early.”  He laid the rifle back down, and began walking out to meet his friend.  Before he reached him, he saw him slump over, and begin to slide from the horse’s back.  

Forgetting the ever-present ache in his knee, Mike broke into a run, and managed to catch Trevor in his arms before he hit the ground.  He helped him to sit, and then gathered the reins of his horse, and spoke softly to her until she calmed and stood still.

“Hey,” said Mike, going to one knee to support Trevor’s back, “where are you hurt?”

“Side,” he gasped, and lifted his hand to reveal a spreading splotch of blood, which had soaked through his chambray shirt.  “It’s not that bad.  Bullet went right out the other side.  I just lost a lot of blood.”

“You feel warm.  Can you walk?  Should I get you back on the horse?  Do you want the wagon?”

“Slow down.  I just need to catch my breath before – ”

“Oh, my God.  Trevor!” came Jenny’s wail, as she raced to meet them, running awkwardly due to her large belly.

“Before Jenny sees me,” Trevor finished, smiling crookedly.  

“Too late,” whispered Mike.

“God damn you, Trevor Evans,” scolded Jenny, “what in the blazes have you gone and done to yourself now?  You can’t keep living this way.  You have too many folks depending on you.”

“Yes, my precious love.  Could we possibly delay this discussion until after I find my bed, and one of you clean and bandage my wound?  And yes, I believe I can walk, if you two would assist me.”  He looked toward the house, brow wrinkling.  “Where’s Junior?”

Jenny blushed.  “I – I sort of tied him to the bed.  I know, I know, but I was a little bit panicked.”

Mike set a shoulder under Trevor’s arm, and helped him to his feet.  He might have dropped him, but Jenny hurried to the other side.  Between the two of them, they manhandled him down the rest of the path to the house.  The horse trailed docilely behind them.  As they got closer to the house, they could hear Junior’s outraged screams.

“This is the devil of a homecoming,” Trevor grumbled.  “I’ll expect my usual celebratory supper, at least.”

“Ah,” Jenny grunted, “that’s going to be a problem.  We’re down to the scrapings right now.  One of us will have to take some of your loot, and head to town tomorrow morning.”

They made it through the front door.  Junior’s bed was in the main room, and the unexpected appearance of his father stopped the screams in his throat.  Seconds later, he switched to screaming, “Papa!  Papa!”

Trevor and Jenny’s bedroom was opposite Mike’s.  The three of them staggered through the open door, and got Trevor settled on his back.

“I’ll just go untie my son,” said Jenny.

Before Mike could leave to go collect the supplies necessary to treat his wound, Trevor stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait.  I have to tell you something.  There’s no money, Mike.  Not this time.”

Mike’s eyes widened.  “What happened?”

“Pinkertons.  At least a dozen of them.  Shot down Davey and Wes straight off.  Me and the rest got away, but they chased us damn near all the way to Manteca.  The rest of the gang wanted to head to San Francisco, so we split up, and I rode for home.  One of those damned Pinkertons followed me.  I dropped him, but not before he put a bullet through my side.”

Jenny had returned.  She stood beside the bed, one hand clutching Junior’s, and the other clapped over her mouth.  “You killed him?”

“It was him or me.  Would you prefer it the other way around?”  He transferred his gaze to Junior, and grinned at him.  “Come here and give your Papa a hug, boy.  Just be careful – nope, other side.  That’s it.”

Mike went to fetch bandages and whiskey, keeping one ear – and one eye -- on what was going on in the other room.

Jenny shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.  “Of course, I don’t wish that.  It’s just … what if they catch you?  You’d hang.  I can’t raise two children on my own.”

“Jenny, calm down and listen to me.”  He clamped his hands over Junior’s ears, and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper.  “There weren’t any witnesses.  I hid the body in a deserted patch of forest.  If anyone ever finds him, the predators will have gotten to him first.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes?  Auggh!  Watch yourself.”  This last was directed at Mike, who had returned, and was using the last of their corn whiskey to clean Trevor’s wound.

Jenny subsided, although she continued to look worried as she set about fixing supper with what remained of their meager supplies.

******

Mike spent most of the night awake, trying to determine another way out of their predicament.  In the end, he knew that he had only one choice.  He eventually dozed off, but tossed restlessly for the final few hours of the night.  When he dressed and came out of his room, Jenny was just serving breakfast – biscuits and bacon from which she had scraped the moldy bits.  Trevor was sitting up at the table, with Junior on his lap (away from his wounded side).  Trevor appeared much improved after a night’s rest.

Before Mike could announce his decision, Trevor spoke up.  “Now that we’re all here, I have something to say.  I would have preferred to come home with a sack of loot, because believe it or not, I’ve given a lot of thought to our future.  Me and the boys rode through Napa Valley on our way north.  Do you know what we saw there?”

“What, Papa?” chirped Junior.

“Fields and fields of grapes, side by side with countless acres of empty land, just waiting to be plowed and planted.”

“Grapes?” asked Jenny, screwing up her face.

“You know what they make from grapes, right?  Wine.  Those vineyards in Napa are going to make a boatload of cash, and I aim to get in on the ground floor.”

Now Jenny burst out laughing.  “Oh, you do?  How do you aim to do that?  We can’t even feed our one child, much less ourselves, and another hungry mouth is on its way.  Our bank note is past due, and your one source of income is gone.”

“No, it’s not.  My gang is split up, is all.  Doesn’t mean I can’t do some solo jobs.  And our friend Mike, here, can visit some of the local card rooms …”

Jenny appeared on the verge of shooting him down, but Mike put up a hand, forestalling her tirade.  

“No,” he said, “to all of that.  You can’t go risking your life, Trevor.  Jenny needs you.  Your children need you.  As for me, I’m tolerably fond of you as well, but I won’t endanger my own life in a card game with strangers, who would take a dim view of my card counting skills.”  He took a deep, bracing breath.  “The obvious solution – the only solution – is for me to take possession of some of that money waiting for me in New York City.”

“Mike, no,” objected Jenny.

Trevor, on the other hand, remained silent, eying him with a calculating expression.

“One time only,” said Mike.  “Enough, so that I won't have to do this again.  I can have Jessica send the money to a bank in San Francisco.  I’ve been considering a trip there already, to meet with my publisher face to face about those tardy royalties owed on my last book.  Even if anyone is looking for me, which I have good reason to doubt, I’ll be there and gone so fast, they’ll have no chance of locating me.  

"San Francisco is a big enough city in which to remain hidden.  With all of the rebuilding still going on after the earthquake two years ago, it will be no trouble at all to blend in with the other anonymous faces.  I’ll get you enough money for your vineyard, and more besides.  Perhaps I’ll go partners with you.  But you listen to me well:  your life as an outlaw ends now.  Today.”  He waited for either to respond.  “Well?  Any objections to my plan?”

Jenny and Trevor exchanged a long look.

“Hell, no,” said Trevor, a wide grin splitting his face.  “Let’s all of us go to San Francisco.”

“No,” replied Mike in a firm voice, ignoring the sudden excitement which died as quickly as it appeared on Jenny’s face.  “Not this time.  I need to do this alone.”

“You, in the big, bad city by yourself?”

Mike gave Trevor a withering look.  “I’m from New York, dunderhead.  I believe I’ll get on just fine in San Francisco.  Not to mention, yesterday you said what’s left of your gang headed there.  I’ll wager the rest of those Pinkertons followed them.  Are you so eager to tangle with them again?”

“Huh.  Good point.  Well, watch your back, just the same.  Don’t go getting yourself shanghaied.  What?  I’ve heard it’s a real problem there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, and behave accordingly.”

Neither Trevor or Jenny looked happy, but they finally nodded their assent.  

“How will you pay for your train fare and hotel?” asked Jenny.  She frowned.  “I suppose we could sell one of the goats …”

Mike ducked his head, feeling sheepish and a bit guilty.  “I, er, may have hidden two twenty-dollar pieces for emergencies.  One should get me there, and see me through until the money arrives.  I’ll leave the other for you.  Will that do?”

“See?” said, Trevor, addressing his wife, “haven’t I always told you he’s a genius?”

******

**New York**

**One** **Week Later**

Harvey glanced up from the articles of incorporation to which he was putting the final touches, and discovered Louis Litt standing in his doorway, shifting from foot to foot.  

They’d taken Louis on a little over a year ago.  Despite too frequent bouts of bizarre behavior, and an unbecoming tendency toward pettiness, Louis was an excellent attorney, with an amazing mind for financial puzzles.

“Louis.  What can I help you with?”

Louis edged all the way inside, and shut the door behind him.  “A … situation has arisen.”

“As you can see, I’m a little busy at the moment, so make it quick.”

Louis perched on the edge of one of Harvey’s visitor chairs.  He appeared as uncomfortable as Harvey had ever seen him.  “I’m sure you’re aware,” he began, “that Jessica has entrusted me with certain accounts that she felt might benefit from my expertise.”

“Yes.  I’ve done the same.  We’re both pleased with your contributions to the firm.”  If Louis was angling for a raise, Harvey was fully prepared to give him one.

Chewing his lip, Louis stared at the floor, and then, seeming to marshal his courage, met Harvey’s gaze once more.  “Promise me you won’t bite my head off if I speak frankly.”

“That depends.”

“I’m serious, Harvey.  We almost came to blows over that Astor deal.  Or more accurately, you almost knocked my teeth down my throat.”

Growing bored, Harvey lifted his pen again, and held it poised over the page.  “Kindly get to the point, or leave.”

“Fine, but I won’t hesitate to call the constable and press charges if you attack me.”

“Noted.”

“Jessica entrusted me with a number of trust funds she had been overseeing.”

Harvey made a “hurry up” motion with one hand.

“One was in the name of Michael Ross.”

Harvey froze.  He laid his pen down carefully and pushed his chair back from the desk.  “The veterans’ home receives an annual stipend from that account.  No one else touches that money.  No one.”

“I won’t.  I haven’t.  I was only researching estate law precedent so that I could apprise you and Jessica of your options.  It’s a lot of money, after all.”

Without conscious thought, Harvey growled low in his throat.

“It was Jessica’s idea,” Louis was quick to explain.  “I – I know … that is, I’ve heard some talk about …”

“About, what, Louis?”

“Please stop looking at me like that.  I only meant to say I’m aware that you harbored a certain fondness for Mr. Ross, and hold his memory in high esteem.  Which is why I thought you, above even Jessica, should hear about this.”

“About what?” Harvey repeated, dimly wondering if Louis would, indeed, have to send for the constable.

“This morning, I received a request for disbursement of funds.”

The rage, which simmered constantly inside Harvey, moved more quickly through his veins, white hot and deadly cold at the same time.  “Who,” he asked in a low voice, “would do such a thing?”

Louis cleared his throat nervously.  “Mr. Ross left a specific set of code words to prove it was he, and no other, making the request.  The telegram, which was delivered to me, contains those exact words, in the specified order.”

“No.”  Harvey rose, and turned to face the window, still shaking his head.  “Not possible.  Mike Ross died two years ago.”

“Allegedly.”

“I will not,” Harvey ground out, “have this argument again.  Not with you, or anyone else.  He is dead.”  Despite his words, a tiny spark of hope flared up inside him, and he stamped it out ruthlessly.

“Harvey, I’m not disputing that.  You see the problem now, don’t you?  If what you say is true – and I’m more than willing to believe you – then we are dealing with an imposter, who is making fraudulent claims against the deceased’s trust fund.”  Louis wait several seconds.  “So, what are we going to do about it?”

Harvey gave that some thought.  “Where was this telegram sent from?”

“San Francisco.  The bank specified for the transfer is also located there.  It’s a simple enough transaction.  I’ve made this type of money transfer dozens of times.”

Louis’ words pricked Harvey’s memory, and he frowned, turning back to face Louis.  “What did you just say?”

“That I’ve wired money dozens of times?”

“Not that.  You mentioned San Francisco.”  Harvey stared past Louis, mind working rapidly.  The publisher of the dime western he and Donna had argued about was located in San Francisco.  It couldn’t be … but what if it was?  He gave his head a violent shake, but the thought remained firmly lodged in his mind.  He could feel the pain of loss, against which his rage had armored him for two long years, begin to chip away at that armor.

He tightened his jaw, determined not to succumb to the seductive lure of hope, which would surely destroy him if he allowed it to take hold.  “I suppose,” he said, “that someone must travel to San Francisco to disprove the claim.  Congratulations.  I elect you.  Pack your bags.”

Louis shook his head.  “But that won’t work at all.  I’ve never met the man face to face.”

“Jessica, then.”

“Jessica is a woman, and should not be expected to travel all that way on her own.”

“She would reject everything about that assumption.”

“Just the same, I think we both know who needs to make the trip.”

Harvey sighed explosively.  “Harold?”

Louis sneered at this.  “I’d feel even more trepidation for his safety than Jessica’s.  No, Harvey, it’s you.  You need to go.”

“I’m the managing partner of this firm.  I have a dozen cases or more that require my personal attention.  So, no.”

“You know I’m right.  Think about it.  I saw your face when I mentioned Mike Ross’ name.”

Harvey took a step toward him.  “Louis, I am warning you for the last time …”

Louis jumped to his feet and backed up all the way to the door, speaking rapidly.  “You need to exorcise your demons, Harvey.  Anyone can see you’re still grieving.  Go west.  See for yourself.  Put the past behind you, so you can get on with your life.”

Harvey continued to advance on him, causing Louis to gulp audibly and open the door.

Witnessing the fear which he’d produced in the other man, sudden weariness washed through Harvey.  Maybe Louis was right.  He couldn’t sustain his level of rage for much longer.  It was wearing him thin.  Added to that, he realized he was anxious to meet this imposter and make sure he received the justice he deserved.  Or if, by some miracle … no.  He could not allow himself to dwell upon that possibility.

He curved his mouth into something meant to be a smile, but most likely looked like a snarl, and held out a placating hand towards Louis.  “I’m not going to hit you.  Actually, much as it pains me to admit it you may be right.”

“I may?  I am?”  Louis broke into a grin.  “Thank you.  It's very decent of you to admit that.”

“Has Jessica been informed of this development?”

“Yes.”

Harvey grunted.  Jessica must have sent Louis to him in her place.  Such cowardice wasn’t like her, which told him everything he needed to know about how much she still must sting from his words to her two years ago, and his brusque treatment of her since then.

“You’ll have to take care of a portion of my clients while I’m gone.  Are you up to the task?”

“Yes.  I am willing and able.  I’d be honored.”

“Good.  I suppose it’s settled.  Now get out, so I can begin to make preparations for my departure.  If you see Mr. Sorkin, please send him in here.”

Following Louis’ departure, Harvey dropped back into his chair, and began a mental list of all that he must do in order to begin his journey west in the morning.  He’d have to divide his cases up, counsel Mr. Sorkin on how to proceed in some of them, and turn the rest over to Louis and Jessica.  Packing a few things wouldn’t take long.  He should stop by the bank before they closed to obtain some traveling money.  Lastly, simply for the sake of preparing for all eventualities, he would obtain the cursed dime novel from Donna, on the off chance that he deemed it necessary to visit the publisher and make inquiries about the author.

He had precious little time to accomplish all he needed to do.  Still, he remained still for a few minutes longer, staring down at the articles of incorporation without seeing them.  Two years ago, almost to the day, he’d made the decision to travel to Rosswood to solve a mystery.  Now, he had evidently agreed to travel all the way across the country in service of the same mystery.  

He felt no elation, as he had the last time.  He felt only unease, seasoned by his ever-present rage.  No matter what he found in San Francisco, whether it was a clever confidence man aiming to enrich himself by impersonating Mike Ross, or if Mike Ross turned out to be alive and well ( _impossible_ , insisted his rational mind), the man awaiting the transfer of funds would be made to suffer for his transgressions, whichever specific transgressions they turned out to be.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> (It's probably fairly obvious, but Mike and Harvey will meet once again in the next chapter.)


	18. Chapter 18

**San Francisco**

 

Mike twitched back the drapery covering the window on his third-floor room at Buss House, and stared out at the foggy morning.  Most likely, the fog would lift before noon, revealing the bay to the east, partly obscured by the new construction which seemed to be taking place everywhere in the city.

He'd had a brief stay in San Francisco two years ago, on his way to rendezvous with Trevor.  That had been before the Great Earthquake shook the city.  When he'd returned some months later, to enquire about getting his first novel published, he'd been amazed at the extent of the recent damage.  Now, two years on, few signs remained of the great tragedy.  Optimism for the future abounded.  The city had survived Mother Nature's worst, and was presumably thus inoculated against further shocks of the same kind.

Compared to New York, San Francisco was perhaps one tenth the size, at least in population.  Still, to Mike, it felt more crowded, teeming with wagons, buggies, horsecars, and pedestrians, all competing to cram together on its dusty streets and wooden sidewalks.  He would not go so far as to say New York was more civilized, as parts of that city remained as rough and tumble as any other.  But here beside the Pacific Ocean, he sensed a rawness, and a wildness, in both the atmosphere and the spirits of inhabitants and visitors alike. 

He had not expected to be here for so long.  He'd arrived with only the clothes he was wearing.  After finding a hotel for his overnight stay, he’d gone straight to the telegraph office to send word to Jessica Pearson that he required access to his money.  He'd chosen the Bank of California to receive the transfer.  It possessed an excellent reputation, as well as an impressive building, lending it an air of permanence which he found reassuring.    

He spoke directly to the bank's manager, Josiah Peters, an attractive man about a decade older than him, with silky blond hair and round spectacles.  During the meeting, which lasted several hours, Mike signed all the necessary paperwork to open an account.  All that was left was for confirmation of the transfer to be sent to the bank, and the funds would be released to him.  This might take a day or two, explained Peters, all the while sizing Mike up with his shrewd, hazel gaze. 

Mike had unearthed one of his old suits for the trip, but it was two years out of date, and too small besides, straining around his broader shoulders and thicker waistline.  He was well past giving a damn what anybody else thought of him, and so shrugged off the man's apparent scorn.  However, when the look in his eyes shifted unexpectedly from scorn to interest, Mike was instantly on guard.

"Where are you staying?" asked Josiah, tapping his pen on his desk's blotter, in a manner which reminded Mike of Harvey.

"Why do you need to know that?"

Josiah gave him a condescending smile.  "How else will we send word to inform you that your funds are available?"

"Oh.  Right.  I'm staying at Buss House on – "

"I know where it is.  On Montgomery, between Bush and Pine.  Less than three blocks from here.  Not one of our city's better establishments, but sufficient for the farmers and tradespeople visiting for business, or … pleasure."  He stressed the last word, making it sound positively sinful.  "What about you, Mr. Ross?  Is it only business which brings you here?  Or are you perhaps intent upon sampling what else we have to offer?"  He licked his lips suggestively.

Mike hesitated.  On the train ride here, he'd toyed with the idea of seeking out San Francisco's version of _The Sink_.  The problem was, he had no way of knowing where to begin his search, or whom to ask.  If he chose the wrong person, he might speedily find himself in an all-out brawl, or tossed into the local lockup.

His body, however, ached for release which involved something more appealing than his own hand.  His months with Harvey had conditioned him to the intense pleasures possible between two men.  A visit to a sizeable city such as this could be his only opportunity for such an interaction. 

He might be willing to put himself at risk to reclaim that sort of bliss, except that it would of necessity be with a stranger, not with Harvey.  Therefore, he concluded during the journey between Stockton and San Francisco, he was not ready to move on yet.  The thought of allowing someone besides Harvey to touch him, and claim him, and move inside of him in such an intimate manner, made him ill.

Which is why he met Josiah's obvious flirtation with a bland expression, and said only, "Exclusively business.  I hope to be done with that as quickly as possible, and on my way home."

Josiah dropped his eyes for a few seconds, and then smiled tightly, returning to his previous professional demeanor.  "Of course.  I think you'll be able to wrap up your errand in a day or two.  As I said, I'll send word to your hotel when everything is in order."

They shook hands, and Mike took his leave.  The brief skin to skin contact had no effect on Mike, which was a relief, but also made him want to weep, for reasons he could not articulate. 

 

******

 

The next stop Mike made was at his publisher, _Beecher & Co.  _He waited for half an hour in the lobby, until the front desk clerk informed him that, regrettably, Mr. Winston, who oversaw the sorts of works Mike wrote, was not in the office, was traveling for the next two weeks, and Mr. Ross was welcome to check back at that time.  Trying not to feel as if the city had it in for him, Mike returned to his hotel, and settled in to wait.

The "day or two" needed for Mike's money to be made available, stretched to three days, then four, and then to a week.  Mike occupied himself during this time writing, and with long walks around the city, taking in the sights. 

One day, braving the altitude, which promised (and delivered) a strain on his bad knee, he hiked to the top of Nob Hill and gawked at the fine mansions, many still under construction, belonging to the city's elite, men who had grown wealthy through the railroads, the acquisition of gold and silver mines, and shipping companies. 

Many of the homes featured fanciful, asymmetrical architecture, with colorful, decorative trim, round towers topped by steep, peaked roofs, huge bay windows, and every manner of arch and turret.  He spied more stained glass than he'd ever seen inside a church.  Well-trimmed lawns and hedges were the norm, along with an abundance of blooming plants. 

It amused him to realize that if he chose, he could own a home like this, but instead he lived in his friends' three-room homestead, subsisting on griddle cakes and moldy bacon.

The next day, he kept to the waterfront, careful to avoid the rougher, commercial areas.  Tall-masted ships were anchored in the bay, arrived from, or departing to, exotic locations on the other side of the world.  Perhaps a mile from shore, were several smallish islands, seemingly barren of life.  Seabirds circled overhead, and scrabbled noisily on the pier for what scraps of garbage they could find.

Mike tried to imagine himself sailing on one of the ships, but could not do so.  He'd heard too many accounts of the hardships faced at sea, and the privations the sailors suffered.  As uncertain as his life might feel at the moment, he preferred to keep his feet on solid ground.

After a week had crawled past, and with his funds growing short, Mike made another visit to the bank.  When he walked through the front door, Josiah spotted him immediately, and hurried over to greet him.

"Mr. Ross, I was just thinking about you."

"Were you?" Mike asked coldly.  "I've heard nothing from you.  It's been a week.  Where is my money?"

"Ah, we've encountered a … complication."

"Kindly be more specific."

"Nothing on our end, mind you.  This sort of transaction is fairly routine.  Your solicitor in New York is causing the delay."

"Indeed?"  Mike grew uneasy at this news.  Jessica hadn't seemed the sort of woman who would attempt to cheat him out of his fortune, but he'd only known her for a short time.  "What is this complication?"

Josiah set a hand on his arm, seemed to think better of himself, and removed it.  "Come back to my office, and I'll tell you everything I know."

Grimacing, Mike gave a curt nod and followed him out of the lobby and down a hallway to his private office.  When they were both seated in comfortable leather chairs, Josiah folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward.  "One of the partners at the firm, J. Pearson – I assume you are acquainted with him?"

"Yes.  However, the individual in question is a woman."

His eyebrows rose.  "Truly?  How extraordinary."

Mike might have amazed him further with the news of Jessica's ancestry, but he was growing impatient.  "Not so extraordinary, unless we are talking about her acumen as a lawyer, which is well above average."

"Yes, er, I am no lawyer, so you'll have to forgive me if my understanding of the matter is less than satisfactory.  It seems their authentication procedure is rather intricate, and further complicated by the distance involved."

This made no sense to Mike.  His previous communication had strictly conformed with the plan he had devised with Jessica before his departure.  Frustration sharpened the tone of his reply.  "This is absurd.  The money is mine.  What can she be thinking?"

"That, I have no way of knowing.  All we can do is await further word from New York."

Mike held back a frustrated groan.  "But my traveling funds are nearly depleted.  I arrived here fully expecting to be gone again in a matter of days.  Am I supposed to sleep on the sidewalk for the next week?"

"I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience."

Mike drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair, thinking.  "Would it be possible for me to obtain a small, short term loan from the bank?  Obviously, I could repay you as soon as the transfer goes through."

Josiah's mouth crimped as he shook his head.  "I'm afraid not.  Unless you have some sort of collateral?"

"No."  Mike sighed and shifted, preparing to rise, but Josiah spoke again.

"You find yourself in a difficult situation.  I understand that."  He glanced at the closed door, and back to Mike.  "Perhaps there is something I can do to help."

Mike eyed him warily.  "Can you?  What might that be?"

Leaning closer, Josiah lowered his voice to a murmur.  "Forgive me for being so blunt.  You may be fooling the rest of the world, but you don't fool me.  I knew what you were the moment you walked into my bank."

Mike hid his sudden alarm.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the glances you sent my way, as if you were wondering how it might feel to lay with me.  Don't look so shocked.  I've been wondering the same about you.  Let us satisfy our mutual curiosity.  I'll lock the door to my office, pull down the shades, and have you right here, over my desk.  In exchange, you'll receive a sufficient amount of money to remain in the city for another week."

Mike's mouth had fallen open at Josiah's crass proposition.  "That's – you're – No.  Absolutely, definitively, no."

"Why not?  I promise it will be a pleasurable experience for both of us.  You might be able to find what you're looking for on Pacific Street, but that comes with risks I'm sure you don't need me to enumerate."  He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, withdrew a gold twenty-dollar double eagle, and set it on the desk.  "What do you say?"

Mike rose, clutching his cane, while imagining swinging it up into Josiah Peters' smirking face.  "I say, you have mistaken me for some Barbary Coast whore."

Josiah shrugged and smiled unconcernedly.  "Call it a personal loan, if it eases your conscience."

"Was I not clear?  The answer is no"

"Am I so undesirable, then?"  Josiah sounded genuinely wounded by Mike's rejection.

"That's not – Look here, I would not engage in … _congress_ with you, no matter the circumstances.  Your clumsy attempt at coercion only strengthens my determination.  Good day, sir."

Before he could open the door, Josiah had crossed the room, crowding close to him where he stood with his hand on the doorknob.   "Wait, Mr. Ross … Michael.  I'm sorry for my clumsy proposal.  Let's begin again.  I would like to take you dinner.  Would that be acceptable?  We can dine at the Grand.  After that, anything past dinner would be entirely up to you."

Mike stared into pleading hazel eyes.  He'd been prepared to issue another firm "no," but hesitated now.  The man was attractive enough.  Would a dalliance with him be so unpleasant?  He would, of course, refuse any money from him, but what harm could come from one dinner out at a fine restaurant?  It might help ease the crushing loneliness of the past week … of the past two years.  Did he intend to remain celibate the rest of his days?

Seeming to sense Mike's wavering resolve, Josiah pressed closer, resting one hand on the closed door near Mike's head.  "If you're good to me, perhaps I could allow you to stay with me for the rest of the week."  He paused, staring at Mike's mouth.  "Say yes."

Mike shook his head.  "I can't."  Not when memories of Harvey continued to haunt him.  "Kindly step away, so I may leave.  Do not, I beg you, give me cause to strike you with my cane."

For long seconds, Josiah did not move.  Mike braced himself for a struggle.  Finally, the other man removed his hand from the door and took a step back.

"I hope you enjoy sleeping in the gutter," he sneered.

Mike nearly laughed in his face.  "Oh, I've faced much worse.  You have no idea."  He fumbled with the door knob, managed to get it open, and made his escape.

 

******

 

The red-light district of San Francisco had, for reasons Mike failed to grasp, been dubbed by the locals, "The Barbary Coast".  Whorehouses, saloons, dance halls, gambling dens, and all other manner of seedy enterprises lay along Pacific Street in an untidy sprawl.  Customers, nearly exclusively men, swaggered – or staggered, even at ten o'clock in the morning – down sidewalks badly in need of repair.  Energetic, often out-of-tune piano music spilled through open doors, and competed with one another in a nerve-jangling cacophony. 

It was to this part of town that Mike's steps brought him after his visit to the bank.  An idea had blossomed in his mind, the seeds of which had been planted by Trevor.  Mike needed money to keep himself housed and fed for another week.  Two dollars and a handful of smaller change remained in his pocket, but that should be enough to buy himself into a poker game.  His uniquely robust memory practically guaranteed that he would come away a winner.

Keeping his guard up, he walked the length of the district, looking for a quieter establishment, inside which he would be less likely to find trouble.  Perhaps because of the relatively early hour, a single whore accosted him, a sleepy-eyed young woman dressed in nothing by corset, pantalettes, and unbuttoned leather ankle boots.  He dodged her handily, tipping his hat as he walked by, and sending her an apologetic smile over his shoulder when she rasped a curse at him.

With his attention briefly diverted, he nearly missed the commotion inside the saloon to his right.  Two men hurtled through the swinging doors, fists flying, and scattering the crowed on the sidewalk.  Mike hopped back out of the way, and then backed up further when a third man, presumably the proprietor, emerged with a bucket of (what Mike fervently hoped was) water, and flung it over the two brawlers.  Cursing, they separated, shaking off water, and then turned as one and chased the proprietor back into the saloon, with murder in their eyes.

After this alarming scene, Mike had cause to reconsider the wisdom of his plan.  While he was still deep in thought, a peculiar scent teased his nostrils.  Frowning, he looked for the source, and soon deduced that it was coming from the building next to the saloon.  Shades had been drawn tightly over the inside of the windows, and no sign proclaimed its name or purpose. 

Curiosity moved his steps toward the front door.  As he neared, it opened, and a man lurched out.  Judging by his clothing Mike assumed him to be either a laborer, or a sailor on leave.  His eyes were dull and dead, and he walked unsteadily, mumbling lowly to himself.  He carried with him the same odd scent which had drawn Mike here, sweet and thick and earthy.  Mike told himself to keep walking, but despite his better intentions, he stepped closer, and opened the door to peer into the dim interior.

It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.  Smoke hung heavily in the air.  Bodies of barely conscious men lay haphazardly around the space, some on dirty mats, some on the bare floor.  Several held long wooden pipes, fitted out with brass and glass bowls, which they held upside down, toward a small, burning lamp set on a tray, while they lazily inhaled the resultant smoke.  A thin Chinese man stood and made his way toward Mike, holding out his hand, palm upward, indicating that immediate payment was required to obtain entrance.

Shock overcame Mike.  This could only be an opium den.  He had read enough newspaper articles proclaiming the moral and civic dangers posed by such places.  He couldn't speak to morality, but he knew too well the dangers.   Was he only imagining the effects the smoke already had upon his senses?  He gave his head a violent shake, and backed quickly out the way he had come. 

Outside, the sun may have burnt away the fog, but a different sort of fog filled Mike's head.  He stumbled blindly down the sidewalk, bumping into passersby, and leaned a hand against the side of a building, head down, inhaling huge gulps of fresh air, and cursing his bad luck.  Even from a block away, the temptations of the ugly little room called to him.

The scent of opium clung to him – to his hair, and his clothes.  It seemed to have seeped into his very pores.  He required a bath, and he was possessed with the urgent desire to burn the suit he wore. 

"Hell and damnation," he muttered, as memories assailed him of the week he'd spent in hell, cleansing the poison from his body.  Even knowing the consequences of succumbing to his weakness, half of him still wanted to race back to the opium den, and thrust his last two dollars into the waiting hand of the proprietor.

"Hey, mister.  Hello?  Are you feeling poorly?"

The tentative voice brought Mike at least partially back to himself, and to the present.  A young man, hardly more than a boy, stood at his elbow, watching him, and biting his thumbnail.  Mike stared at him, noting the thick kohl lining his long-lashed green eyes, and his lush, carmine lips.  _Pretty,_ thought Mike dimly, and was surprised by the sudden, sharp attraction he felt for him.  He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his damp face.

"Mister?  You look like you're fixing to land face first in the dirt."

A portion of Mike's panic subsided, and he decided that his dizziness had been more a reaction to the shock of coming upon the den by chance, than the actual effects of the smoke.  He straightened, and took a step toward the young man, who backed away, skittish as a colt, before stopping and seeming to examine Mike closely.  Mike did the same, from his dark hair which hung in loose curls against his shoulders, to the flowered dressing gown he wore over light cotton trousers.  _Very pretty, indeed._  

"I just … I made a wrong turn."  Mike smiled at the man.  "It's good of you to be so concerned.  I'm well enough.  Or I will be soon."  He was tempted to reach out and touch the man's arm, but did not wish to drive him farther away.  "What's your name?"

A nervous laugh.  "Why would you want to know that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Most men I meet don't bother with names."  He crossed his arms and sighed, appearing both petulant and even more damnably attractive.  "Very well, since you asked, it's Cyrus."

"Like the Persian king?"

An elegant shrug.  "Like my grandpa.  Most folks call me Cy."

"Pleased to meet you.  I'm Mike."

"Oh.  Pleased to meet you, too."  He hesitated, chewing his plump bottom lip.  "Um, I should probably get back inside."  He jerked a thumb towards the door of the building upon which Mike had been leaning.

"Is this where you work?"

Cy nodded, staring down at the sidewalk.

"Is alcohol served on the premises?"

"Of course."

Mike mentally counted the change in his pocket.  Unless the place overcharged him, he could just manage enough for two drinks, with his two-dollar gambling stake intact.  "Well then," said Mike, "would you allow me to buy a drink for the only person kind enough to ask after my welfare?"

Cy shrugged again, and his dressing gown fell away from one bare shoulder.  "It's your money."  He looked straight at Mike, smiling sweetly.  "Follow me."

He led the way into what looked like a typical enough saloon.  The patrons however, Mike noticed immediately, were exclusively male.  One slept with his cheek against a table.  In the far corner, two men shared a passionate kiss.  Mike took a seat at the bar, relieved to be off his feet.  His head spun from the opium smoke he had breathed, but his knee still throbbed painfully, which reassured him that the effects had only been minor. 

Cy sat next to him, pushing his stool a little too close to Mike's.  Mike did not comment on that, and in fact, repressed a shiver caused by something he thought never to feel again.

"What is this place?" Mike asked.

"Welcome to _The Miner's Ball."_

The bartender ambled over, sporting an opulent handlebar mustache, and dressed in what Mike recognized as typical cow wrangler attire, except that the entire ensemble looked clean and brand new, including a pristine Stetson "Boss of the Plains," which sat on his bald head, and which Mike instantly coveted.  He set his own grimy top hat on the bar, ordered two whiskies, and carefully counted out twenty cents when they’d been poured.  Raising his glass, he clicked it to Cy's, and they both drank.

Mike coughed harshly.  "Strong," he croaked.

Cy drained his own glass without so much as a wince.  Seemingly emboldened by the alcohol, he leaned against Mike's arm, and trailed his slender fingertips up his thigh.  "For another dollar," he whispered in Mike's ear, "you can take me upstairs, and do what you like for the next hour."

Mike was tempted, but he could not afford the dollar.  Also, since he'd just had the displeasure of learning what it felt like to be treated like a whore, courtesy of Josiah Peters, he had no wish to subject this kind young man to that indignity – except that he was, in fact, a whore, and probably depended on trade from men like Mike for his livelihood.

With a regretful smile, Mike replied, "Sadly, I cannot afford you.  When you found me outside, I was in search of a poker game, to earn my room and board for the next week."

Cy nodded, appearing sympathetic.  "It's an expensive city.  Are you sure a game of chance is your best course?  I'm certain I could convince Wallace – "  He gestured toward the bartender.  "I could convince him to set you up with a room upstairs.  It ain't fancy, but with your looks, you could bring in plenty of business."

Mike chose not to be offended.  "I believe cards will suit me fine.  Besides, I couldn't possibly compete with you."  He reached over and tucked a stray curl behind Cy's ear.  "You are about the prettiest thing I've ever seen."

Cy blushed and licked his lips, drawing Mike's avid gaze to his reddened mouth.  "I'll tell you what:  because I find I quite like you, I'll give you some advice.  If it's a card game you want, stay away from _Torkin's_ and _The Millhouse_.  The dealers cheat, and you're likely as not to get an unwelcome surprise in your drink."  At Mike's lifted eyebrow, he elaborated, "You might wake up miles out to sea, with a vicious headache, and a new occupation you never wanted."

Mike blinked a few times, belatedly remembering Trevor's warning about the shanghai artists.  He glanced down at his empty glass on the bar top, wondering if he had just made a dreadful mistake.  Cy's silvery laugh interrupted his rising panic.

"You have nothing to worry about in here, unless you count the infernal police raids.  Wallace keeps a lookout on the next block, though, so we usually get fair warning to clear out."

"Oh.  That's encouraging, I guess."  Despite spending much of his life in New York City, Mike was beginning to feel too much like the bumbling country mouse.  "I appreciate the warnings.  Which gambling hall would you suggest I try my luck in?"

"After the sun goes down, I'd avoid every one of them.  This time of day, _Crockett's_ is tame enough.  Still, refuse any alcohol, and keep your stay as short as possible.  If you win a little there, you could move on to _The Red Slipper_.  The stakes are higher, but so are the winnings."  He lowered his lashes.  "If you have a good run, why don't you come back and see me?"

"Maybe I will."  It seemed the safest response, but Mike doubted he would ever see pretty Cyrus again.  Perhaps he would send him an anonymous gift of money, enough to seek out a different life, if that's what he wanted.  He owed him for his solicitousness outside, for his simple kindness, and for his welcome advice.  Most of all, he owed him for helping Mike realize that it was still possible to feel attraction to another person, and raising hope that one day he would find the man who would give him a reason to move on, once and for all, from Harvey Specter.

As always, when his thoughts turned toward Harvey, some perverse part of his mind tried to suggest that leaving Harvey had been a cowardly act, and a colossal mistake, but he sternly commanded that part of his mind to be silent.

 

******

 

With directions from Cy, Mike easily found his way to _Crockett's_ , and sat down at a table with four other men who did not look as if they would shoot him in the back if he won a few pots.  He handed the dealer his two dollars, stacked up the meager chips he received in return, and settled in to win just enough money – but not too much.  He had no wish to end up in a fight such as the one he had recently witnessed.

It took him three hours of winning a little, losing a little, and winning a little more, before Mike emerged back on the sidewalk, fifty dollars richer.  There had been some grumbling at the table when he chose to collect his winnings and leave, but the hired security man who stood nearby convinced any disgruntled players that it would not be worth their while to pick a fight in that establishment.

Walking rapidly, he left the Barbary Coast behind, and returned to the commercial district, where he visited a haberdashery he had noticed on one of his strolls.  He walked out wearing wool trousers, white cotton shirt, brocaded vest, and canvas duster.  He left his suit behind, for the shop to do with as it chose.  Since his top hat would be an odd match with his new clothing, he went next to a hat shop, spending several minutes trying on various styles, and ultimately selecting a Stetson just like the bartender's. 

Thus attired, he returned to Buss House and ordered a hot bath, in which he soaked for the better part of an hour.  His mind wandered as he soaped and rinsed.  Josiah Peters, smarmy scoundrel though he had turned out to be, had opened Mike's eyes to how closed off he'd become.  He treasured his friends, Trevor and Jenny, but the only life he had outside of them – his writing – consisted of an entirely made-up character, a figment of his imagination.  He couldn't live that way forever, but must move on, and open himself up to new experiences.

His chance meeting with Cy had further convinced him that it was high time he did just that.  Perhaps he would return to _The Miner's Ball_ after all, but not yet.  Not until he had his money, and could pay enough for a full night together.  He would take Cy to a fancy restaurant, maybe visit a music hall with him, and if he was amenable, bring him back to his hotel room. 

If those plans sounded too much like what Josiah, in the end, had offered, he chose to ignore that uncomfortable fact.

 

******

 

Boredom was well and truly setting in by the time his second week in San Francisco had passed.  Mike had been tempted to return to the poker table, to try his luck at _The Red Slipper,_ but convinced himself that he should not tempt fate, which had never been much of an ally to him in the past.  He wrote, read the local newspaper, and struck up a friendship with the front desk clerk at his hotel, with whom he spent a few pleasant hours playing chess and discussing the politics of the day.

The afternoon before he intended to return to the bank and, if necessary, throw a tantrum the likes of which Josiah Peter had never seen (and perhaps move his business to a different bank), a note was delivered to him at the hotel, requesting his presence there the following day, at ten o'clock in the morning.

He woke, ate a filling breakfast, shaved carefully, and splashed bay rum on his cheeks.  As he dressed in his new outfit, he eyed himself in the mirror, deciding he cut an acceptable enough figure.  No one would mistake him for either an actual cow hand, or a fine gentleman, but he felt a degree of comfort in this sort of clothing that he never had in his expensive suits.  His last touch was to set the Stetson on his head, spending several minutes experimenting with different angles, until he’d found the one he liked the best.  Satisfied, he picked up his cane and set off for the bank.

Arriving at precisely ten o'clock, he searched the main room for Josiah, but did not see him.  A helpful clerk was dispatched to his office, and at last, Josiah appeared.

"Michael," he greeted him, his overfamiliarity grating on Mike's nerves, "how very punctual you are."  He took a few seconds to let his gaze travel up and down Mike's form.  "Gone native, I see.  Well, no worries.  It suits you."

"Let's dispense with the small talk.  If my money is now, as I assume, in my account, I should like to withdraw part of it immediately.  Whether I choose to leave the balance here, or take my business elsewhere, is entirely up to you, and your treatment of me today.  Have you something for me to sign?"

Josiah fixed a patently fake smile upon his face.  "Certainly, as soon as we take care of the formalities.  Come with me to my office, if you please."

They began walking, side by side.  Mike could only be happy that the man had not resumed his abortive attempts at seduction – or whatever that had been.  Perhaps he valued the welfare of the bank over his own lustful feelings.

"So," Josiah was saying, "as soon as you've been confirmed as the person to whom the money belongs – "

"I beg your pardon?  Surely there can be no more question of that.  What were these two weeks for, if not to establish the authenticity of my claim?"

"Assuredly.  You’ve no cause for upset.  Your attorney is waiting for you in my office, and as soon as he identifies you as Michael James Ross, we can complete your business."

"What did you say?"  Mike tried to slow their progress, but Josiah had hold of his arm, and they had already reached the threshold.  He tripped gracelessly as he entered the room, and then his heart nearly stopped inside his chest at the sight of the man who lounged in front of Josiah's desk, seeming perfectly at ease, and heartbreakingly handsome as ever.

It was Harvey Specter. He looked as angry as the devil himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hear me out. I wasn’t planning to end this chapter at that point, but the first part ran longer than I expected, and getting their meeting just right is proving to be a challenge which requires more thought. So … a bit of a cliffhanger.   
> I’ll try to get the next chapter done and up by next weekend.
> 
> In the meantime, as always, thanks for reading!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And ... here it is! (Pants heavily.) One more chapter to go, I think.

The morning Harvey left New York, rain slid to the ground in sheets, pooling in potholes and gutters, creating tiny lakes every bit as dull and grey as the sky.  The weather suited Harvey’s mood perfectly. 

He stopped at the telegraph office on his way to the train station, to send a detailed set of instructions to an inquiry agent in San Francisco, and included a generous sum of money.  His driver delivered him to the station in plenty of time to purchase his ticket to San Francisco.  Once on board, he sought out the conductor and booked a berth in the sleeping car.  The fanfare surrounding the driving of the Golden Spike had taken place a year earlier, connecting both halves of the country by rail.  Consequently, his trip would take a week (barring unforeseen delays).

He settled into his seat, newspaper tucked underneath one arm, and two dime novels by Michael Jameson clutched in his hand.  During the day and a half it took to travel from New York to Chicago, it proved impossible to concentrate on either reading material.  His thoughts raced, seemingly faster than the train's top speed of sixty miles per hour.  The rainy weather prevented a clear view of the towns and the countryside through which they passed.  He barely noticed the passengers who boarded and departed at each stop.

During the first night, he slept badly.  Another time, the motion of the train over the tracks might have soothed him, and helped him to sleep.  He couldn’t shut off his mind, though.  Memories of nights with Mike clashed with images of the burnt body at Rosswood.  At the same time, hope of finding Mike alive in San Francisco clashed with stark despair at the likelihood of having his death confirmed after all. 

They made a stop for dinner in Chicago the following evening.  They had seemingly outrun the rain.  For the first time, Harvey looked around him with faint interest.  The Great Central Depot was an impressive brick structure, served by a jaw-dropping eight tracks.  Three arched masonry openings allowed entrance to the train shed.  Back home, their own Grand Central Depot was still under construction, would probably open the open following year, and promised to surpass the Chicago station in architectural grandeur.

During the brief layover, many of the passengers disembarked to stretch their legs and take a closer look at the great city.  Harvey chose to wait inside the train, where his meal was served, having been delivered from a nearby restaurant.

Eventually, the train left Chicago, and sheer exhaustion allowed him to sleep for most of the night.  When he woke, the train was steaming through flat farm country – Iowa and Nebraska, the conductor later informed the car.  Wyoming, reached sometime the following day, was a wonderment of austere, fantastical rock formations, so different from his home state that he might have been in another country entirely. 

Despite the strangeness of the landscape, soon enough it edged into monotony.  Just before they reached the Continental Divide, Promontory Summit in the Utah Territory – the location of the famed Golden Spike – Harvey, growing bored, finally gave into curiosity, and opened the first of Donna's two Bandit Bill books. 

It was quick and easy reading, full of stirring action and charming characters, recounting both moral failings and the inevitable redemption which followed.  He was forced to admit that the main character did share many of his characteristics, at least as he imagined they might be perceived by other people.  Still, he remained resistant to Donna's theory, until an incident halfway through the book wherein Bill rescued a hapless young man he found abandoned and wounded in a remote part of the Sierra Nevada Range.  After nursing him back to health, the two of them teamed up to wreak revenge upon the men who had left him for dead.

As the sun rose on the arid landscape of Nevada, he finished the first book, and immediately picked up the second.  By the time the conductor announced their arrival at the border to California, Bill's companion, who went by the suspiciously familiar name of Micah Russet, had decided to part ways with his friend, so as not to impede Bill’s rise in society as a result of his courtship with a beautiful young society lady.   Micah left Bill a touching farewell note, part of which read:

_"In the short time I have known you, I have seen firsthand the high esteem in which your colleagues, family and friends hold you.  This is all part of – and because of – the fine man you are.    My continued association with you would only bring you as low as I, and I have no wish to be the cause of such a grievous injustice.  I owe you far too much to repay you in such a manner._

_"My abrupt departure may give you cause to doubt it, but I, too, hold you in the highest esteem, and my fondness for you surpasses anything I've felt for another person in the whole of my life.  Our too brief time together is something I have no wish to forget."_

These sentiments sounded so startlingly familiar to him that he reached for the folded sheet of paper in his breast pocket.  He had excavated Mike's final letter to him from the back of the drawer into which he had shoved it, with some thought of employing it to either prove or disprove the claimant's identity, based upon his handwriting.  Now, he held it next to the pages of the book, and read alternately from letter and book.

Nausea welled up in him at the discovery that the phrasing of the letter followed that of the book nearly identically.  A single word had been changed – "colleagues" becoming "family" – but the rest of the letter was an exact match to the writings of Michael Jameson, who could be, Harvey was finally forced to admit, none other than Michael James Ross.  No one besides himself and Donna had seen the letter.  Due to Mike’s unusual memory, he would have had no difficulty reproducing it word for word.

He waved off the conductor, who had come down the aisle inquiring about breakfast orders.  Harvey couldn't have managed a bite at that moment.  He could no longer ignore the overwhelming evidence in front of him:  somehow, Mike was alive.

He pictured the body pulled from the burned wreckage of Rosswood, and remembered the blur of days that followed, when the only thing keeping him upright and putting one foot in front of the other was his anger – not at Mike, but at the world he was now required to inhabit without Mike in it.  He'd channeled his anger into defending his clients – and into fighting off the promised campaign of innuendo waged against him and his firm by Hardman, which had continued unabated for much of the first year.

After Harvey had defeated him three more times in court, and poached four of his wealthiest clients, Hardman had evidently decided it was a lost cause.  Harvey’s clients cared not at all how he conducted himself in his personal life.  They cared only that he could be counted on to win for them.  He suspected that more than a few of their new clients sought them out after reading one of lurid accounts in the gossip rags. 

Anyone else might have crumbled under the onslaught, but Harvey only considered it free advertising for his firm.  Despite the coolness which persisted between Jessica and him, she had proved every bit as driven as he, to prove their detractors wrong.  It took her longer, but she had built up an impressive client list of her own.

Their firm was rapidly gaining a reputation as one of the finest in the city, but despite that, and the wealth they were amassing, Harvey never felt satisfied.  Every victory seemed hollow and pointless, but he still must strive for the next one, and the next. 

 

******

 

The tracks descended through thickly forested hills, moving past pristine lakes and small towns.  The sun rose over the unprepossessing state capitol of Sacramento.  A crowd of new passengers boarded, nearly filling up the car.  When Harvey inquired, the conductor informed him that they should be arriving in San Francisco in less than four hours.

He considered, as dispassionately as he was able, what his course of action should be.  He had travelled this great distance to verify the identity of Mike Ross.  Having already come to his conclusions, he could inform the bank to let the transfer of funds go through without further delay, and end his involvement in that matter.  However, the more he thought about it, they more likely it seemed that an identification in person would be required of him.

How then, would that meeting go?  It was difficult to say.  He had too many unanswered questions, why Mike had left him being the overarching one.  There was also the matter of the burnt body found at Rosswood, and the testimony of the locals that they had seen Mike before the fire.  Had Mike been at Rosswood, for the purpose of manufacturing his own death?  Harvey hesitated to think Mike capable of anything so wicked.  It would explain why he had not accessed his money for two years, but not why he was attempting to do so now.  It also begged the question, whose body had been recovered from the fire? 

He would get his answers, he decided, and he would purge himself, once and for all, of his foolishly sentimental memories of Mike, and their brief time together.   After that, he would leave and never come back, and he would not think of Mike Ross again, or dream of him, or gasp his name as he spent himself inside of some two-dollar whore.

 

 

******

 

As soon as he disembarked from the train in San Francisco, Harvey headed straight to the inquiry agent who had been recommended to him by Jessica.  Vanessa Harmon's small office was located just off Montgomery street.  She'd converted the parlor of her two-story house into a stylish, professional space, with a large desk, and comfortable, overstuffed chairs.  Oil paintings of what appeared to be local scenes, all featuring a backdrop of the Pacific Ocean, were mounted on two walls.  An enormous bay window looked out on the actual ocean, and the fourth wall featured an extensive collection of Wanted posters.

"Have a seat, Mr. Specter."

Harvey moved to comply, but one of the posters caught his eye, and he altered course to stand in front of it.  The moustache was new, the nose straighter than on the original, but he remembered the arrogant sneer and dark hair as if the man had stood next to him only yesterday.  It was Trevor Evans, wanted, along with a gang of six other men, for numerous robberies of banks, railroads, and stagecoach runs.  He turned his gaze to Trevor's cohorts, studying them closely, but could find none even slightly resembling Mike.  He supposed he could find a measure of relief in that.

Finally, he sat in the offered chair, and waited for Vanessa to give her report.

"Someone you recognize?" she asked, gesturing toward the posters.  "I'd split the reward with you."

He owed Trevor nothing, but found himself shaking his head in the negative just the same.  "A passing resemblance only."

She didn’t press him further.  “How is Jessica?”

“You knew her at Harvard, is that right?”

She laughed.  “She was at Harvard.  I worked in town.  We struck up a close friendship.  When my brother decided to move west after the war, I came with him.  He worked as a Pinkerton for a few years, and then we went into business together.  Jessica and I still correspond regularly.  She is … remarkable.”  Vanessa straightened the small stack of papers on the desk in front of her.  “You never answered my question.”

“She is well enough.  Busy with work, making friends and enemies in roughly equal measure.”

“Which are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Friend or enemy?  She doesn’t write much about you, just enough for me to read between the lines.”

“And what have you read there?” he asked, already guessing the answer.

“That you continue to hold some complicated grudge against her.   And that you are a person who can be exceedingly difficult to work with.”

This was not news to Harvey.  “All accurate deductions.  Now, if we’re done gossiping, perhaps we could talk about the matter I paid you – rather well, by the way – to look into for me.”

Seemingly unoffended by his brusque manner, she gave a brisk nod, and consulted the page on top of her stack.  “Michael James Ross.  It was a matter of less than an hour to learn his whereabouts.  I could claim that we are just that good, but in truth it was nothing more than a stroke of luck.  This office, as it happens, is only a block from his hotel.”

“Which is?”

“Buss House.”

“Please write down the address for me.”

She reached for a fountain pen, wrote rapidly on a blank sheet of paper, and handed it to him.  He folded it in thirds, placed it in his inside pocket, and made as if to rise.

“Wait.  Don’t you want to hear the rest of it?”

“Of what?”

“His movements over the past week.  Who he met with.  That sort of thing.”

Harvey bit back a sigh.  “Very well.  Kindly keep it as brief as possible.”

“I shall do my best.  Mr. Ross is an avid sightseer.  It took my brother, myself, and two of our associates to keep pace with his hikes, game leg notwithstanding.”

“This is hardly – ”

“In addition, he has visited the Bank of California twice.”

“Obviously.  I already know he’s opened an account there.”

“My brother says he appeared angry and put out both times he left the bank.”

“I don’t doubt it.  Anything else?”

“A week ago, after his second visit to the bank, our associate trailed him to the Barbary Coast.”

Harvey’s eyebrows rose.  “Are you telling me he boarded a ship for the north of Africa?”

She laughed lightly.  “It’s the local term for the section of town hosting, shall we say, businesses catering to all variety of vices.”

“And which,” he asked, annoyed by the sudden dread he felt, “variety of vice did he visit?”

Running her finger down the page, she read, “’Mr. Ross first surveyed one of the district’s most notorious opium dens, but left straightaway, and did not appear to take part in the debauchery therein.  Following this brief interlude, he struck up conversation with a certain Cyrus, last name unknown, one of the male whores at the equally notorious and immoral establishment known as _The Miner’s Ball._ ’”  Vanessa looked up from the page.  “It is a saloon where men enjoy the company of other men.  The police raid it regularly.”

Harvey’s face tightened as a resurgence of anger gripped him.  “We have … similar places in New York.”

“Of course.  The report goes on as follows: ‘Mr. Ross then entered one of the district’s many gaming halls.  He was observed at the poker table, where he won a moderate amount of money.  Not hesitating to spend his winnings, he made his way to a haberdashery, and a maker of hats, exiting in new attire, and cutting a rather fine figure.”

Harvey resisted the inclination to roll his eyes at the absurd editorializing.  “Did anything of note happen since then?”

She skimmed through the rest of the report.  “More sightseeing.  Dinners alone, except for one time when the clerk from his hotel was his companion.”  Folding her hands, she rested them on top of the papers.  “That brings us to the present.  Unfortunately, we had no way of verifying his identity.  I assume that’s why you’re here?”

“You assume correctly.  Other evidence has recently convinced me that he is who he says he is.”

“That’s good news, then.”

“Is it?”

Her eyebrows lifted delicately.  “I suppose I’ll leave that for you to decide.  Is there anything else we can help you with?”

Harvey shook his head, standing abruptly.  “Was the retainer I wired sufficient, or do you require further payment?”

“You’ve been more than generous.  If you ever have the opportunity to send future business our way …”

“I will think of you first.  Thank you for your help.  Good day.”

 

******

 

Harvey secured a room at _Locke House_ , freshened up, and ordered a late lunch.  He arranged for a message to be sent to the bank, requesting a meeting with Mike Ross the following morning.  A little over an hour later, he received a reply.  The meeting was set for ten o’clock.

He considered his options for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  After brief consideration, he ruled out a trip to _The Miner’s Ball_ to have a look at this Cyrus, last name unknown.  It made him ill to think of Mike with another man.  Perversely, he felt no guilt over his own numerous indiscretions in the past two years.  He had thought Mike dead.  Mike, on the other hand, knew Harvey still lived, and had cast him aside to pursue, or so it seemed, the life of a debauched libertine.

Despite himself, it concerned him that Mike had been drawn to that opium den.  Was it only a momentary weakness, immediately fought off?  Or had he fallen back into that killing addiction?  The more worried he became, the angrier he grew.  After pacing restlessly around his room for a good hour and a half, he came to a decision.  He couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning, and would go see Mike tonight.

Night had fallen, but plenty of people were still out in search of business or pleasure.  He walked the few blocks to _Buss House_ , and then paused on the sidewalk, undecided as to the wisdom of this course of action.  Inside the front windows, he could clearly see the lobby, which was clean enough, but lacked the elegance to which Harvey was accustomed.  As he vacillated, a man walked down the inside staircase, moving awkwardly with the help of a cane.

Harvey froze, and a swift chill went through him as he recognized Mike.  He felt as if he was seeing a ghost – although no ghost had ever appeared so handsome and robust. 

Mike had gained weight, shedding his former spectral appearance.   He wore rougher clothing than he had the last time Harvey had seen him … or, no, wait.  The last time he'd seen him, he'd been wearing nothing at all.

As he watched, Mike limped up to the front desk, appearing both cheerful and confident.  The clerk greeted him with a wide smile, and produced a chessboard from behind his desk, setting it on the counter.  Mike grabbed a chair from the lobby, dragged it closer, and settled in to play a game with the clerk, with whom he was evidently on excellent terms.

Jealousy burned and twisted in Harvey’s gut as he watched them.  Mike had moved on, that was clear.  The whore … this attractive hotel clerk.  The entire time Harvey had suffered through his own personal hell, Mike had been out west, as happy and carefree as you please. 

Growling at a passerby who bumped him on his way down the sidewalk, Harvey turned away from the scene in the window, hands curled into fists, and wondering if he could find a decent bottle of scotch in this town.

 

******

 

Harvey despised Josiah Peters the moment he clapped eyes on him, from his floppy blonde hair, to his round spectacles, to his obsequious manner, and avid, curious gaze.

“Mr. Specter.  How pleasant to finally meet in person.  Your reputation precedes you.”

“All the way from New York?  I highly doubt it.”

“But it’s true.  I have arranged to have newspapers mailed from all over the country.  I like to keep up on current events.  You have certainly provided plenty of fodder for your local newspaper men.  I didn’t think you could possibly match up with my expectations, but you’ve exceeded them.  You’ve exceeded them by far.”

Harvey only grunted at that, and followed the man to his office.  Mike, he noted at once, had not yet arrived.

“Michael, er, Mr. Ross and I have struck up quite the friendship in the past two weeks.”  Using his index finger, Peters pushed at the center of his spectacles, seating them back on the bridge of his nose.  “We shall likely dine together soon.”  He licked his lips.  “You are more than welcome to join us.”

“Is that so?”  Exactly how many men, Harvey wondered, was Mike entertaining these days?

Finally appearing to sense Harvey’s dark mood, Peters cleared his throat and fiddled with his fountain pen.  “Did you have a comfortable journey out from New York?”

“Have you ridden on a train lately?”

The bank manager’s lips pressed together.  “Yes.  I see your point.  Still, here you are.  You’ll remain here for a while, I hope.”

“Do you?”

“I can get us into the finest restaurants.”

Pointedly, Harvey reached for his pocket watch, and checked the time.  Ten o’clock sharp.  Even from across the desk, he heard Peters’ gulp.

“I’ll just … uh …”  Peters gestured vaguely at the open doorway.  In the same moment, one of the tellers appeared.

“There’s a Mr. Michael Ross to see you, sir.”

“Ah, good.  Excellent and … and good.  If you will excuse me for a moment Mr. Specter.”

Harvey did not bother to reply as Peters left the office.  The moment was upon him, at long last.  He steeled himself, steeled his heart, and fixed a scowl upon his face.  He would have his answers, and Mike would be made to regret his appalling behavior.

It took every ounce of self-control Harvey possessed not to react when Mike walked – or rather, stumbled – through Josiah Peters' door.  For the meeting, he’d worn a blue and black brocaded waistcoat over a crisp white shirt.  Around his neck hung a ridiculous black string tie, of which Harvey had seen an increasing number, the further west he traveled.  Instead of a suit coat, Mike had on a long, black, canvas duster.  On his hat was one of the ubiquitous Stetson hats.  He must have spent a fair amount of time in the sun, as his face was tanned, with a sprinkling of freckles across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

As Josiah walked past Mike and Harvey to sit at his desk, both remained frozen for several long, agonizing moments, each reorienting themselves to the presence of the other.

Harvey broke the silence first, drawling, "I must say, you look remarkably well for a dead man."

Mike gave a start at that, and his frown deepened.  "What the devil are you doing here?" he hissed.

Despite Mike's apparent good health, he looked on the verge of toppling over.  Harvey hardened his heart to Mike's obvious discomfort, and gave free rein to his own anger.  "I traveled here to apprehend an imposter, but instead, I've found a ghost."

"What … what … what are you talking about?"  Mike paled, as if something had occurred to him, and he dropped heavily into the chair next to Harvey.  "Did you not receive my letter?"

"Ah.  The letter.  In fact, I do recall a missive from you, following your abrupt disappearance.  It was quite touching, and may even have squeezed a tear or two from my cold, stoic heart."

"Gentlemen," Josiah interrupted him, "I'm not sure …"

"No."  Harvey turned his cold gaze on the bank manager.  "There is no way you could be.  This matter is between myself and Mr. Ross."  He waited a beat.  "Leave us."

Josiah hesitated a moment longer, but must have seen some of the murder Harvey felt in his heart, and hurried out of the office without another word, closing the door as he went.  Mike stood suddenly, retreating to the corner near the window, where he leaned with his arms crossed over his chest.

"Harvey, I said everything I intended to say in my letter.  If you require to hear it from my own lips, then I’ll say it again:  I'm sorry.  I never meant to hurt you.”

"No declarations of undying love this time?"  Harvey rose and took a step toward Mike, gratified by the look of alarm on his face.  "Fuck the letter.  Fuck your perverted notions of loyalty.  Most of all fuck you."

Mike's eyes were huge in his face.  He tore his hat from his head and ran a hand through his hair.  "Why … why are you so angry?  I d-don't understand."

"You are not a stupid person.  I'm certain you can puzzle it out on your own.  Or, perhaps, despite my earnest arguments in court, you are mad after all, and should have been returned to the asylum."

Mike gasped.  "Don't you dare say that to me."

"I'll say that, and more."  He closed the gap between them by another step.  "The days are long past when you can turn those wide, pleading eyes my way, and manipulate me into giving you whatever you want.  You can have your cursed money, and to hell with you.  There is only one thing I want to know before I go."

"What?" choked out Mike.

"Who was it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Beg all you want, you'll get no pardon from me.  Now, give me an answer, or I'll be forced to beat it out of you."

Mike's hand jerked convulsively, and Harvey's eye was drawn to the cane he clutched defensively in front of himself – the cane Harvey had given to him, in an moment of weak sentimentality. 

"I'll give you all the answers you want.  All you need do is ask.  But I'm telling you, I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're a liar.  Are you a murderer as well?"

"What?  No."  Chest heaving with emotion, Mike spun to face the wall, seemed to realize he would find no help there, and turned back.  "God, I don't know.  Maybe you're right.  Maybe I am mad.  I feel as if I must be going mad, because what you are saying makes no sense.  Please, Harvey.  Please tell me what has driven you to this state."  He dropped his eyes, and whispered, "Besides the obvious, of course."

Mike looked so distraught, and so confused, that Harvey's anger dimmed slightly.  This is not how he’d expected him to react.  He knew all the tricks and deceptions to which a guilty man might resort, and Mike only appeared aggrieved, and edging into hysteria.  Harvey sighed, ordered himself to calm down, and spoke in a quieter voice, even as he despised himself for a weakness he’d thought long gone.

"I followed you to Rosswood.  No, don't speak.  Let me finish, damn you.  As I stepped off the sloop that had brought me there, I found the house engulfed in flames.  I ran to get you out, but the doors were barred."  His words caught, and he gave his head a rough shake.  He would not break down in front of Mike. 

When he felt himself capable of speaking evenly, he continued.  "Eventually, a body was recovered from the ruins of the house, too badly burnt to identify.  Your neighbors, though, a handful of men from the local hamlet, all swore under oath that the young master of the house had returned two days earlier.” 

He paused, jaw working, until he’d once again regained control of his emotions.  “I saw the body.  None of the locals were reported as missing.  I believed – everyone believed – it could only be you.  My conviction was further confirmed as time passed, and no demands on your bank account were made.”  He paused again, arrested by the agonized look one Mike’s face.

Mike had pressed a hand to his mouth.  His eyes stared wildly at a scene only he could see.  “Dear God,” he rasped, “my cousin.  I’ve killed him.”

“Are you confessing to murder?” 

Mike looked positively ill.  “I suppose I am.”  He set his hat carefully back on his head.  “I have to go.  You should not have come here.”

Harvey’s anger returned full force.  “Ah, yes, I recognize the move.  Your favorite, is it not?  By all means, run from me again.  I’ll find you.”

"I beg you, do not seek me out again."

"Tell me, where are you running this time?  Into the arms of Cyrus, you whore?  Or to one of the many purveyors of opium in this city?"

Mike's only response this time was a choked noise in the back of his throat.  He pushed past Harvey, brandishing the cane as if he would swing at him if necessary.  Harvey did nothing to stop him, only frowned thoughtfully after him.

Until Mike had mentioned him, Harvey had forgotten about his cousin, Logan Sanders.  After Mike left Rosswood for New York, following the death of his parents, Logan had remained behind.  In effect, he had become the "young master of Rosswood," and must have been viewed as such by the locals.  If Mike had not been the person who had perished in the fire, the only logical conclusion was that it had been Logan.

As the pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Harvey's mind, he felt, all of a sudden, the densest of fools.  Mike had not died that day, and he had not staged his own death to deceive the world.  It had been a bizarre case of mistaken identity, caused by an improbable set of circumstances worthy of a dime novel. 

"Mr. Specter?"

Deep in his own musings, Harvey had not seen Josiah Peters return to the office.  He gave him a questioning look, one eyebrow raised.

"I, uh, I watched Mr. Ross rush out of here.  He appeared distressed – wild-eyed, one could almost say.  Have you brought bad news?"  His brow wrinkled as something else seemed to occur to him.  "You're not denying him his funds, are you?  Is he not who he has claimed to be?"

Harvey let out a slow sigh.  With his anger no longer propping him up, he felt only intense weariness.  "No.  He has proven his identity, and is entitled to whatever he wants.  Is there anything I need to sign before I go?"

"Yes.  Yes, indeed."  He hurried to his desk, sat down, and shuffled through a pile of papers.  "Here it is.  Just sign at the bottom."

Harvey took the release form, and the pen Peters handed.  Not bothering to sit, he skimmed through the document, and then leaned over the desk and scratched his name on the signature line.

"If there is anything else I can do for you – "

Peters was still talking as Harvey swept out the door, and out of the bank.

 

******

 

Harvey's pace slowed as he put distance between himself and the bank.  He had some vague notion in his mind of returning to his hotel, packing his things, and catching the first train headed east.  The closer his steps brought him to _Locke House,_ the less his feet seemed inclined to obey him.  He'd finished his job here, he lectured himself.  He'd verified Mike's identity, released his funds, cleared up some of the mystery involving his "death," and communicated, quite clearly, he believed, his deep displeasure with Mike's actions.  What, then, remained to be done?

He couldn't banish the image of Mike from his mind, how confused and lost he’d appeared, and then how his expression changed to horror at hearing news of his cousin's apparent death.  The look on Mike's face when he'd fled Peters' office … Harvey had seen that expression before, when he had first met Mike, in his moments of greatest distress.  And damn him straight to hell, but that look still brought out Harvey's protective instincts, despite his earlier protestations.  What if Mike became so distraught that he did something as foolish as falling back under the thrall of opium?

As his steps changed direction, toward Mike's hotel, Harvey told himself that he was only going there in his capacity of Mike's lawyer, to inform him that a sizeable deposit had just been made to his bank account.  Since Vanessa had already given him Mike's room number, there was no need to inquire at the front desk.  He climbed the stairs to the third floor, strode down the carpeted hallway, and knocked on Mike's door.  When there was no immediate answer, he began to grow alarmed.  He raised his fist to knock again, but the door swung open.

"Harvey?"  Mike peered out at him, but made no move to let him inside.  "What do you want?"

"Our business was not yet concluded when you ran out of the bank."

"It doesn't matter.  Keep the infernal money.  I've recently discovered other means of earning my living."  He tried to close the door, but Harvey thrust his hand out to brace it open.  "Damn it, Harvey."  Mike pushed back hard, but Harvey proved too strong for him.  Finally, he gave up, and stepped out of the way, saying, "I'm not going to engage in a ridiculous struggle with you in the hallway.  Come inside if you must.  Say whatever it is you came to say."

As Harvey entered the room, he observed that Mike's valise sat open on the bed, and he'd already begun packing.  "Leaving the city so soon?"

"Bah.  I've been here two weeks.  I'm sick to death of this place."  He crammed a shirt and pair of trousers into the valise, and glanced about the room, as if searching for anything he might have forgotten.

"Mike."  No reply.  "Mike," he repeated more forcefully, "look at me.  We both said some things – "  At Mike's baleful glare, he hastily amended, "Myself, most of all.  I said some unkind things back there, based upon what I have believed to be true for the past two years.  Before you leave … and before I return to New York, can we not at least sit down and speak to one another, as frankly and civilly as we are able?  I still have questions, and I'll wager you do as well."

Mike remained frozen in place, staring fixedly at the floor, as he appeared to mull over Harvey's words.  He gave one terse nod, and gestured toward two wingback chairs flanking the room's stove.  When they were both seated, Harvey struggled for a moment with what to say.

"What I told you at the bank," he began, "was the truth.  I saw Rosswood burn.  I saw a body which everyone present assumed was you."  He paused, all at once remembering the ungodly stench of that morning.

"Logan," whispered Mike.  He cleared his throat and spoke more strongly.  "Before I left New York, I went to his hotel and signed over the deed to Rosswood to him."

Trying not to appear as shocked as he felt, Harvey asked, "Why?  After all the misery to which he subjected you, why would you do that?"

"He was my family, my only family left in this world.  I had no wish to return to Rosswood.  That place has brought only ill luck to me and my family – witness Logan's fate."  He blinked rapidly for several seconds, and then finally lifted his gaze to meet Harvey's.  "I knew nothing of events after I left New York.  I assumed Rosswood still stood, and it was my fervent hope that Logan had reformed, and begun to rebuild the estate.  I never guessed you would go there, or witness such a thing as you describe.  I'm sorry that you did, and that the misidentification of the body caused you any … well, whatever feelings it provoked, I didn't … I couldn't …"

"Would you like to know," asked Harvey in a low voice, "precisely what feelings the experience provoked in me?" 

"I can only imagine."

"Can you?"  Harvey regretted his sudden volume when Mike pushed back into his chair, as if trying to put more distance between.  He took a moment to calm himself.  "First, you left me that … _letter_."  He spoke the word like a curse.  "I was still reeling from that, when a few days later, your neighbors pulled that _thing_ out of the wreckage, and told me it was you."

"I said I was sorry."

"Grief," he said, speaking over Mike.  "That sight provoked deep, inconsolable grief.  I stood at your graveside as they lowered you into the ground.  I wanted to throw myself on your casket, but what might the world have said about that?  Had I been your spouse, I might have worn black for two years, and stayed away from society, and the world would have understood the depths of my grief.  But, so far as the world knew, you were merely my client, perhaps my friend, and so I was expected to continue as if nothing of note had happened – as if my entire world had not been ripped away from me, had not been burnt to the foundations and left me with nothing but ashes and memories."  He halted abruptly.  He hadn't meant to say any of that.  In truth, he had never acknowledged the depth of his feelings, even to himself.

Mike had gone a sickly color, and gazed back at Harvey with huge blue eyes.  "I am truly sorry for that.  My God, I missed you as sorely as some of my army brethren missed their amputated limbs, but at least I had the consolation of knowing that you still breathed, somewhere in the world."

Feeling drained by his confession, Harvey leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, massaging his forehead.  "Will you at least tell me where you disappeared to?"

"I went to find Trevor."

Harvey nodded numbly.  "That's right.  The Golden Lady."

"Silver.  But, yes.  I followed Jenny's instructions, and traveled to Carson City.  After a week or so, I received word of their location, and went to meet them.  They didn't have much, but they took me in, and treated me like family."

Harvey frowned.  His gaze moved slowly back to Mike's face.  "I assume you are aware of Trevor's … occupation."

"I am."

"God, Mike, please tell me you didn't involve yourself with his crimes."

"I didn't.  I tried to talk him out of it.  Jenny and I both did.  He has a son now, and another child on the way.  The Pinkertons have been on the hunt for the whole gang."

"I saw a startling likeness of him tacked up on the wall of an inquiry agent here in San Francisco."

"Did you?"  Mike looked worried at this bit of news.  "It's good, then, that I insisted on making this trip alone."

This reminded Harvey of another question he'd been pondering all the way out here.  "Why did you suddenly send that telegram, asking for money?  I know about the books, by the way."

Mike blushed at this, but made no reply.

"Did your publisher not pay you enough to get by?"

A heavy sigh from Mike.  "Everything was well in the beginning.  Trevor brought home plenty of cash.  He bought a home for Jenny.  We were all well fed and happy enough, I suppose.  But then the Pinkertons began closing in.  His last trip out, he came home empty-handed, but with some wild notion of buying a vineyard.  It sounded like a good way to steer him away from his criminal undertakings.  I intended the money for that, to go partners with him.  Add to that, my publisher has not paid me what I'm owed for my third book.  I'm supposed to see him before I go."  His brow wrinkled.  "Which reminds me:  he was expected back today." 

Harvey ignored the change of subject.  "So, you risked discovery for the sake of your friend?"

"I didn't see the risk.  Not until it was too late.  I was, as always, a naïve fool."

They both fell silent for a time, each absorbing what the other had revealed. 

Mike spoke first, his voice tentative.  “It is damnably good to see you, despite everything.”

With some surprise, Harvey found himself in agreement.  His only response was a soft grunt.

“In all seriousness,” Mike continued, “I’ve not come across a single person in the last two years to whom I can talk, the way I can with you.”

Another grunt from Harvey.  “Not even the clerk downstairs?”

“What?”

“You too seemed awfully cozy last night.”

Surprised sounding laughter spilled out of Mike.  “We both share an enjoyment of chess.  If you think we were … Well, his wife and five children would be most surprised at the suggestion that he had even found the time to consider something like that.”

Harvey ignored the relief he felt upon hearing this.  He gave a negligent shrug.  “So it’s just Cyrus then.  I’ve had my share of whores.  I suppose it would be hypocritical to begrudge you yours.”

“Begrudge me … my what?”

“I know all about him.  We all must find comfort where we are able.”

Mike rose suddenly and paced away, with his back to Harvey.  When he turned around, his eyes flashed with anger.  “Cyrus was an exceptionally kind young man who came to my aid when he observed me on the sidewalk in some distress.  Yes, I found him appealing, and might have engaged his services, except that for some reason, I could not imagine myself with anyone but you.”  He pointed a finger at Harvey.  “And yet, what I seem to be hearing, is that you wasted no time at all assuaging your deep _grief,_ with not one, but multiple men for hire.  Do I have that right?”

Harvey stood slowly, trying to hold onto his temper.  “May I remind you, I believed you to be dead.  You on the other hand …”

“I had no one!  My days consisted of farm chores, speaking to Jenny – who, lovely as she may be, is not the most stimulating conversationalist – enduring the tempers of her child, and writing my ridiculous stories.  These were the boundaries of my life, so you’ll kindly forgive me if, upon my first venture into the big city in nearly a year, I indulged myself in purely platonic intercourse with men who found my company not entirely objectionable.  Jeb, downstairs, had no interest in bedding me.  Cyrus offered, and I turned him down.  And although the odious Josiah Peters propositioned me, not once, but twice, I said no.”

“You’re a veritable paragon of virtue,” sneered Harvey.

“I never said that.”  Mike shook his head roughly.  “How many?  How many whores did you bed?  Do you have a number, or have you lost count?”

Harvey advanced on him, backing him up against the door.  “Not that it’s any of your goddamned business,” he grated, moving so closely their chests nearly touched, “but not nearly enough to get your damned scent out of my nostrils, the taste of you from my tongue, your unbridled cries of pleasure from my ears, or to banish the feel of you moving beneath me from my veins.”  He rested one hand on the wall next to Mike’s head, and whispered, “Or to get your beautiful eyes, and sweet mouth out of my dreams.”

They stared at one another for long seconds.  It felt like an eternity.  Harvey could feel his own heart pounding in his chest and imagined he could feel Mike’s as well, reverberating through the wood of the door.  He watched as Mike’s gaze drifted to his mouth, and then back up again.

“Harvey …” Mike husked.

Thought and intention both fled at the sound of that broken plea.  Harvey moved the scant inches necessary to crush his mouth against Mike’s.  His roughness lasted only as long as it took for his senses to reacquaint themselves with the sweet taste of Mike.  He gentled his lips and tongue, tenderly devouring his love, and being devoured in return.

Their arms found their way around one another, and their bodies pressed together.  The kiss quickly grew more urgent, and the fire in their veins burned white hot.  Harvey retained enough rational thought to steer them toward the bed.  As they arrived, Mike’s arm untwined from Harvey’s neck, and swept his packed valise to the floor.  They tumbled together, shedding what clothes they could, and fumbling with one another’s trouser fastenings.

Unable to wait, unwilling to break the kiss, Harvey wrapped his hand around both of their cocks and stroked desperately, without finesse.  Within seconds, both were coming, in a wet, hot, sticky explosion, sharing their wild cries back and forth within their frantic kiss.

Finally, Harvey lifted his head.  “God,” he groaned, rolling off Mike, and onto his back.

They lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling, panting noisily, clothing askew, with their spend drying on them.

He heard Mike let out a wisp of a laugh.  “Did any of your whores ever make you feel like that?”

Harvey, too sated to be offended, answered honestly.  “None of them could hold a candle to you.”  He turned his head, to find Mike considering him.  “Not even close.  You are incomparable.”

Mike’s eyes fluttered halfway shut, as if he was in pain.  “As are you.”  He opened his eyes and regarded Harvey once more.  “So.  What now?”

Harvey sighed.  _Excellent question._ “I’m open to suggestions.”  He chewed his lip.  Tasting Mike, he came to a rapid decision.  “All I know, is that I’d rather be with you, than anywhere else.  Do I dare hope …?”

Mike’s brows drew down.  “I would give anything for that to be possible, but my reasons for leaving have not changed.”

Harvey had some thoughts about that, and might have tried to persuade Mike, but he’d had enough of fighting.  He would not disturb this truce.  Not yet.  “Let’s talk about that later.  For now, can we simply enjoy one another?”

Despite the sadness in his eyes, Mike nodded.  “One day, and then I must get back to Trevor and Jenny.”

One day.  Harvey had worked miracles in much less time than that.  “Agreed.”  He glanced down at the floor, at Mike’s valise and clothes scattered around it, and gave an amused snort.  “You’re very nearly packed.  Why don’t you finish the job, and we can move to my hotel?  It’s much nicer than this one.”

Laughing and groaning at the same time, Mike sat up.  “You just want to get me away from my beloved Jeb.”  He surveyed Harvey, and then himself.  “We seem to have made a thorough mess of one another.”

“We have, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

Harvey lay quiescent on the bed, too lazy to move for the moment, watching as Mike reordered his own clothing, and stuffed his belongings back into the valise.  He was stunned at the rapid turnaround.  Their flaring passion had been instantaneous and all-consuming.  Hadn’t it always been that way between them, though?  It was as if their bodies, after two years apart, needed only the barest nudge in the right direction to remember all the pleasures they had once shared.

They would share many more such pleasures, he decided.  If it took longer for their rational minds and their emotions to catch up to what their bodies already knew, he could live with that. 

Mike straightened up and smiled across the room at Harvey.  “I’m ready.  Are you going to walk the streets of the city like that?  Get dressed, old man.”

Harvey held out a hand to him.  “Soon.  Come back to bed.  I want to hold you for a little while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter ...

When morning came, Mike was reluctant to open his eyes.  Had the events of the previous day been nothing more than a dream?  He cracked one eyelid.  No, it was real.  He was in Harvey’s hotel room, and they lay naked in the luxurious bed, tangled together, still sticky from a long night of lovemaking.

He nestled closer, working his knee between Harvey’s thighs, wrapping an arm around his waist, and finding a spot at the joining of neck and shoulder to rest his head.  He palmed Harvey’s cock, and felt it stir feebly to life.

“Mercy,” croaked Harvey, voice thick with sleep.  “You’ve already sapped me of everything I have.”

“Your prick is telling me a different story.”  Mike began a slow stroking, even as he licked delicately up the side of Harvey’s face to his ear, where he concentrated his attentions upon the shell.

Harvey shivered.  “I’m not sure I can move,” he complained.

“You don’t have to.  Just lie still and let me take care of you.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Mike worked his way down Harvey’s body, sliding under the covers, and laying with his head in Harvey’s lap.  He took the head of his prick into his mouth, sucking and licking like it was the latest sugary treat at the general store.  He felt, more than heard, Harvey’s pleased groans vibrate through his body, spurring him on to take him deeper, and deeper still. 

Then Harvey’s hands came to rest on his head, and every other thing in the world, every other thought in his mind, simply faded away.  All that existed was Harvey, and his beautiful prick, hot and hard, as Mike fed it into his mouth, swallowed until he was choking, and kept swallowing.  Harvey’s hands massaged his head, just this side of rough, and his hips thrust up shallowly, making Mike’s eyes water.  He hummed, stimulating Harvey’s cock, and causing him to give a surprised shout and push into Mike’s throat more forcefully.

With his vision whiting out, moaning nonstop, Mike pulled halfway off, palmed the base of Harvey’s cock, and moved his head rapidly up and down, using tongue and a hint of teeth to drive Harvey wild.

“That’s it,” Harvey panted.  “By God, you were born for this.  We were born for this.”  Then he seemed to lose the ability to speak as Mike descended again, not stopping until his nose was pressed to Harvey’s groin. 

He used all the tricks he remembered, to drive Harvey closer to the edge, and poured every ounce of love he felt into the effort.  Finally, Harvey thrust up with an inarticulate cry, and held, shuddering violently.  Mike held on as salty spend slid down his throat.  He waited until he was dizzy to the point of passing out, and Harvey was still once more, before lifting off and surging from under the covers to lie on his back, inhaling huge gulps of air.

He was still drifting, halfway insensible, when he felt Harvey’s mouth close around him, to begin to return in equal measure what Mike had just bestowed upon him.

“Ah, God, Harvey.”  That was all he managed to get out before his orgasm ripped through him.  He shook, and shouted, and finally whined for mercy when Harvey wouldn’t leave off suckling his now soft prick.  With a weak laugh, Mike pulled at Harvey’s hair.  “I thought you were too tired to move.”

Mike’s prick slipped out of Harvey’s grinning mouth.  “I guess I was wrong.  I was unexpectedly restored.”  As if to prove his words, he practically lunged at Mike, throwing his arms around him and kissing him soundly.

This continued for a pleasurable few minutes, until both grew still, lying quietly together and simply enjoying one another's company.  If only this could go on forever, Mike mused.  It couldn't, though.  As his brain began clicking away once more, he was already thinking about the future, and the moment when they would be compelled to rise from the bed, dress, pack up their belongings, and say their final goodbyes before they went their separate ways.

Before he left the city, Mike still needed to see his publisher, to straighten out the matter of his tardy payments.  After that, he would withdraw a modest amount of cash from the bank and return to Trevor and Jenny's homestead.  They would soon after begin the search for a suitable tract of land to purchase in the Napa Valley.  Despite Trevor's boasts, he knew nothing about growing crops, and grapes in particular.  Mike would have to see to it that they sought out the most knowledgeable people they could find, and pay them well to oversee the cultivation, and later, to turn the grapes into wine drinkable enough to sell for a profit.

Harvey, he assumed, would board a train back to New York, and pick up his life there, both professional and personal.  Would he go back to his whores?  Mike supposed he would.  He was a man of robust sexual appetite, and could not be expected to live the same monkish existence into which Mike had settled.  With this in his mind, and without thinking overmuch before he spoke, Mike asked, "Exactly how many were there?"

Harvey's fingers, which had been tracing lazy circles over Mike's back, paused.  "How many what?"

"Prostitutes.  Was it the same one, over and over, or a procession of different ones?"

"Why would you want to know that?"

"Curiosity."

Harvey breathed in so deeply, that Mike, lying across his chest, was lifted, and then lowered when Harvey let out a long sigh.  "I rarely saw any of them more than once.  They meant nothing to me."

"I know."  Did he?  Maybe, but curiosity remained.  "Would they … do things we have not done together?"

Another sigh.  "Mike.  Why pick at this subject?  It can only lead to ill feelings."

"I'm not jealous."  He thought about that, and decided he was telling the truth.  "Just know that you can be honest with me, as I will always be with you.  If one of them had a special trick which you enjoyed …"

"They did what they were told, no more and no less.  It was about commerce with them, not love."  His fingers resumed their circular stroking of Mike's back.  "If you insist upon having this discussion, I may be driven to raise questions of my own.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, tell me about Cyrus."

Mike felt a stab of guilt, which he knew was undeserved.  He thought about not answering, but as Harvey had just pointed out, he had started this.  "He was kind to me.  I didn’t bed him."

"I already know that.  What attracted you to him?  Besides his kindness."

Mike rubbed his cheek against Harvey's collarbone.  "I don't know.  He was sweet and pretty, and … audacious."

"Audacious?  How so?"

"He had painted his face, which I found both shocking and intriguing.  He'd lined his eyes with kohl, and stained his mouth.  He looked like an invitation to sin."

"Ah."

"What does that mean?"  Harvey didn't answer, so Mike lifted his head to find Harvey frowning.  "You can't possibly be jealous."

"No, that's not it.  I'm surprised.  Is that how your tastes run?"

Mike gave him an exaggerated frown.  "My tastes run to you, foolish man."

"If I had never come into your life, would you have been tempted by him?"

"That is an absurd question, for many reasons, not the least of which is, if you'd never come into my life, I'd still be locked away in the asylum."

Harvey cupped a hand around one side of Mike's face.  "Shh.  Let us not speak of that.  I'm only trying to say – too clumsily, it would seem – that I would never stand in your way, if you truly wished to sample one such as Cyrus.  I'd pay his fee, and sit and watch, if you were both amenable."  He fondled Mike's bottom.  "Or join you in the bed."

Mike went hot all over, picturing the scene.  "I … my thoughts never went in that direction."

"What things have you thought on?"

He'd never intended to confess this to another soul, but that was before he'd been given this gift of another day with Harvey.  He couldn't meet Harvey's eyes while he did it, so he pressed his cheek to him, and spoke into his chest.  "I think I might … someday, just for the novelty of it ... like to paint my face like Cyrus."

For several seconds, Harvey was quiet, and utterly still.  "Indeed?"  He seemed to mull that over.  "I believe I should enjoy seeing that.  Very much."

Melancholy returned in a rush, washing away Mike's momentary embarrassment.  "You never will.  Only a few hours remain of our time together."

Harvey gave a thoughtful hum, but did not reply directly to Mike's observation.  “I think,” he said slowly, “that you should return with me to New York.”

Mike rolled off him, and flopped onto his back.  “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“You know the reason.  It’s the same one I gave you in my letter.”

“You feared for my reputation.”

“Yes.  I heard Daniel Hardman threaten you in the courtroom.  It would have destroyed your life if I’d stayed.”

“Do you actually think your leaving prevented Daniel from coming after me?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, he used every dirty trick he could manufacture to sully my reputation.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  He barely made a mark.  For every snide insinuation, and every bit of rumormongering planted in one of the newspapers, I was inspired to work that much harder to win.  And I did.  I beat Daniel time after time, and let him know that every case of his which went to trial would find me either on the other side, or working with them to defeat him.  Eventually, he abandoned his campaign.  It was costing him too much money.”

“The damage was already done, I imagine.”

“What damage?  Jessica and I have gained so many clients since the partnership began, that we’ve had to hire a dozen new associates, and we still have to turn clients away.”

Mike turned his head and made himself smile at Harvey.  “I’m happy for your success.”

“Come back and share it with me.”

It was so tempting.  Mike pictured it, he and Harvey together …  He shook his head.  “Hardman had only rumor and innuendo in his arsenal.  If I returned, and lived with you openly, he wouldn’t hesitate to turn that against you.  I won’t do that to you.”

“I’m telling you, Daniel has no power to harm me.”

“He could enlist others.  With all your success, you’ve undoubtedly gained a fair number of enemies.”

“Sweetheart …”

“No.”

A deep, dissatisfied sigh from Harvey.  “I see.”  Several minutes of silence passed, and then he once again changed the subject.  “I believe you mentioned something about visiting your publisher?"

"Yes, but – "

Harvey threw off the covers.  "I have an errand as well, which permits no delay.  We should rise, dress, order breakfast, and then be about our respective business."

Mike preferred to remain exactly as they were, up until the last possible moment, but he nodded and slid off the bed.  He would have to reacquaint himself to a life without Harvey, and told himself that the sooner he began, the sooner he would move past the gut-wrenching, breath-stealing pain, and could exist once more in the place of numb acceptance he had inhabited for two years.

 

******

 

"Mr. Ross, I believe we were quite clear about the direction in which we wished to see your Bandit Bill series move in the third book."

Mike's fingernails bit into his palms as his hands curled into fists.  Arguing with Arlen Mackelwaite was as frustrating as shouting at a brick wall.  "I removed Micah in the second book, as you insisted.  However, I simply could not see Bill going through with the marriage to Gwendolyn Chatbrook.  It didn't fit with who his is."

"But that is precisely what our readers want.  Happy endings.  Wedded bliss.  Not eternal and unending conflict."

Refraining from pointing out that Bill had been perfectly happy with Micah, and resisting the urge to bang his head against Mackelwaite's desk, Mike snapped, "You published the third book, did you not?"

"Well, yes."

"Did it sell as well as the other two?"

"Better – but that is not unusual when a new author begins to become known."

"Hmm.  Perhaps you could show me all the letters?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Based on what you've said, I can only assume that you have received an avalanche of written complaints, demanding an immediate walk down the aisle for Bill and Gwendolyn."

"Er, no.  Just a bit of fan mail.  The usual thing."

"Interesting.  Then I would like to examine your ledger, so I can verify that the check you're going to write me before I leave here today is in the correct amount."

A toothy, utterly false smile appeared within the thicket of Mackelwaite's beard.  "That, we cannot allow.  You have no standing to make such a request."

"He does, and so do I," said a voice from behind Mike.  He turned to find that Harvey had appeared in the open doorway.

"And you are …"

"Mr. Ross' attorney.  You can either produce that ledger now, or I'll go see a judge about forcing you to do so.  If you don't immediately make good on what you owe my client, you and your publishing company will be sued for royalties owing, interest, travel costs, attorney fees, and mental suffering."

Mike had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.  Leave it to Harvey to rush in with a Gatling gun, when a single-shot derringer would have likely sufficed.  The effect on Mackelwaite was immediate.  He sputtered, turned several shades of red, and finally stood and walked stiffly to confer with the clerk outside his door. 

Harvey grinned as he sat next to Mike, and gave him a slow wink. 

"I could have handled him on my own," Mike said.

"Admit it:  you enjoyed that almost as much as I did."

It was true, but Mike shook his head.  Still, he couldn't banish the smile from his face.

"Next time," said Harvey, "bring your lawyer to the meeting."

"I don't have a lawyer."

"You wound me.  I am your lawyer, always, in perpetuity."

This sobered Mike.  His mouth turned down into a frown.  "I believe 'perpetuity' is defined as considerably longer than the few hours we have left together."

Harvey may have intended to respond, but just them, Mackelwaite returned with a leather-bound ledger book.

 

******

 

“You should take that check directly to the bank,” said Harvey, strolling down the sidewalk as if he had all the time in the world.

“Tomorrow is soon enough.  Right now, I want you to myself.  Let’s go back to your room and – ”

“I seem to have worked up an appetite.”

Mike wanted to yell in frustration.  Was Harvey punishing him for their earlier disagreement?  Whatever the case, he seemed determined to avoid another interlude in bed.  For Mike, this was the only and obvious choice of how to spend their final minutes together.

“We had breakfast not much more than two hours ago,” said Mike.  You can eat later after …”

“After what?”

“You know what I mean, damn you.  Why are you behaving in this manner?”

Harvey gave him an enigmatic half-smile.  “I have something to say to you.  I would prefer not to have this conversation with you on a public sidewalk.  And if I let you drag me back to bed, I will forget entirely what it was I meant to say.”

“Fine.”  Mike grabbed Harvey’s arm and dragged him through the doorway of the nearest café, and waited while Harvey made an elaborate show of perusing the brief menu, and ordering them each a steak, fried potatoes, and fruit compote.

 “I won’t be able to eat even half of that,” Mike griped.  As he thought of the time it would take to prepare the food, serve it, and consume it, he realized that after the meal, it would be time to part ways, probably forever.  He wanted to weep at the thought, but refused to break down in front of Harvey.

They sat in silence until the waiter returned with a pot of coffee.  Harvey poured them each a cup, and took a sip before speaking.  “Would you like to know where I went this morning?”

Mike shrugged, uninterested.  “I assumed you’d gone to the train station, to book your return trip.”

“A reasonable guess, but incorrect.  I went to the telegraph office, and sent a rather costly telegram to Jessica Pearson.”

“Oh?  Why costly?”

“Because it took a fair number of words to explain that I wished to dissolve our partnership, and would not be returning to New York any time soon.  I added some advice on current cases, and urged her to take on Louis Litt, a promising young attorney, as her partner.  After that, I sent a second telegram to Donna, with instructions as to the disposition of my belongings.  A third telegram went to my bank in New York, requesting they transfer all of my – considerable, I’ll have you know – funds to the same bank wherein your account resides.  I’ve yet to inform my family – ”

“Wait.”  Mike’s heart was beating so fast, and his thoughts raced so wildly, that he could barely get the words out.  “Wh-what does this mean?  You can’t … that is you shouldn’t … “

“I can, and I shall.  Since you have made it clear that you will not return to New York, I’ve decided that I must move west permanently.”

Mike could only gape at him across the table.

Harvey, damn him, was smiling his devil’s smile.  “Since you appear incapable of speech at present, permit me to reveal my plans.  Despite your less than glowing assessment of this city, I find I quite like it here.  Therefore, I shall immediately begin the search for office space, so that I may hang out my shingle, and take up the practice of law here.  I’ve not thought so far ahead as to know where we should live, but I’m sure that between the two of us, we can locate something suitable.”

“B-but – ”

“But what about Trevor and his growing family?  By all means, go partners with him and his vineyard.  It sounds like an excellent investment, provided you hire an experienced viticulturist and vintner to steer him in the right direction.”

“How do you – I mean, obviously.”

“You don’t need to live there, but you can visit as often as you like.  By train and wagon, it should be a journey of half a day or so.  It’s up to you, but I’ll admit, I hope you decide to stay most days here in the city with me.  If you choose to visit only once a week, or once a month, I suppose I must be content with that.  If, on the other hand, you insist that I travel to Napa to see you, I’ll spend weekends there.”

“Harvey – ”

He continued, speaking over Mike, “I’ll adapt in whatever manner I must, but know this:  you will not again condemn me to the half-life … to the absolute living hell I would endure if I was forced to spend the remainder of my life without you by my side.”  He broke off as the waiter arrived with their food.  When they were alone once more, he stared at Mike across the table, eyes dark and intense, and every trace of humor gone from his face.  “Well?  Have you nothing to say?”

Mike swallowed noisily, and imagined everyone in the restaurant could hear him.  “I would like nothing more than to live my life with you.  What will people think, though, when they discover the true nature of our relationship?”

“They won’t.  People see what they choose to see.  Why worry about something that has not yet happened?  We’ll be discreet.  If any trouble comes our way, we will deal with it.  Even if we are driven from here, and from the next town, and the next, I would gladly spend the rest of my days as a vagabond with you, then behave with anything less than authenticity in any city in the world.  So, what do you say?”

Mike finally permitted himself a slow, uncomplicated smile.  “It’s not so much what I want to say, as what I want to do right now.”

Harvey quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Do you think,” said Mike, “that we could convince the waiter to wrap our food to take away with us, back to the hotel?”

“We could.  You haven’t answered my question.”

Mike leaned across the table and whispered, “Oh, but I intend to answer it, upon every inch of your skin.  The answer, of course, is yes.  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.”

Was that utter relief he saw on the always confident features of Harvey Specter?

“Tell the waiter to hurry, my love.”

Harvey shook his head.  “To hell with the food.”  He slapped a five-dollar gold piece on the table, grabbed Mike’s hand, and dragged him from the restaurant.

 

******

 

**One Year Later**

 

 

Harvey tipped his driver generously, as always.  He’d heard some talk in town of some new-fangled contraption being planned to make the trip to the top of Nob Hill less taxing on the horses – or upon the people who chose to make the trek on foot, as Mike so often did. 

Harvey carried a satchel of papers from work in one hand, and in the other a well-packed dinner from Mike’s favorite restaurant.  He expected his lover to be upstairs, working on his new novel, sitting at the desk at the huge window overlooking the bay. 

They’d bought the three-story mansion as a work in progress, after the first owner had gone broke, and been forced to abandon it only three-quarters built.  They had both overseen the finishing details, and moved in seven months ago, just Winter as had been settling in.

The profusion of bay windows had presided over massing clouds, steady rain, and choppy grey sea all Winter.  Now, with Spring well underway, bright sunlight poured through those same windows, lighting up the new furniture, rugs, wallpaper, and growing art collection, and sending the two cats who had adopted them into mindless bliss.

As he opened the front door, he found Mike waiting for him, with Cecil and Agatha rubbing against his bare feet, and purring loudly.  They may have looked put out when he surged forward to throw his arms around Harvey’s neck to welcome him home, but they quickly recovered, and consoled themselves with strolling to the nearest warm pool of sunlight and sprawling there.

“Happy anniversary,” Mike whispered in his ear before letting him go, taking the basket of food from him, and leading the way to the kitchen.  “How was court?”

Harvey dropped his satchel near the front door, and followed him, loosening his tie as he went.  “Fine.  Timothy Wexler won his libel suit.  The Blake Carpentry Company successfully sued for payment from Rufus Weston, and the Jhang family will be allowed to keep their jewelry shop.”  He heard the poorly disguised bitterness in his own voice, and knew that Mike had as well.

Mike turned to face him, leaning against the counter.  “I know it’s not what you were used to in New York.  It’s going to take some time to build your practice.  You may consider those clients to be insignificant, but for them, those cases meant everything.”

“I know.  It’s not the small scale of the cases that wearies me, but the quantity of them.  This city does not have enough lawyers by half, and I’ve yet to find anyone clever enough to read the law with me.”  He watched as Mike set two places at the dining table, and then joined him in unwrapping the food in the basket.  “If you would ever change your mind …”

“Oh, no.  I’m happy here, in this house, scribbling away with my two furred friends.”  He paused, biting his lip.  “Do you ever …”

“Ever what?”

“Do you regret staying?”

“What?”  Harvey set his hands on Mike’s shoulders, and gazed earnestly at him.  “Never, not even for the briefest moment.  Remember, I have enough money that I don’t have to work another day in my life.  I absolutely enjoy the work.  I’m close to signing Gill Shipping, as well as two or three of our well-to-do neighbors.  As I said, I am only lacking qualified help.”

They sat across from one another and passed serving dishes back and forth, loading their plates with roasted chicken, honey-glazed root vegetables, and thick chunks of cornbread, still warm from the oven.

“Speaking of help,” said Mike around a bite of cornbread, “we should look for a cook and housekeeper.  You shouldn’t have to haul our dinner home every night.”

Harvey nodded distractedly.  “Are we all packed for tomorrow?”  They were visiting Trevor and Jenny at the Evans & Ross vineyards.  The vines were still too new to produce grapes for wine.  It would be another year or two, according to Eduardo Castillo, who seemed to know everything there was to know about growing grapes.  Mike liked to keep an eye on things, and Harvey didn’t mind getting out of the city every so often.

“That’s what I spent all afternoon doing” said Mike.  “Did I tell you Jenny’s expecting again?”

Harvey pulled a comical face.  “Horrifying.  I hope number three has a sweeter disposition than Junior and Edith.”

Shaking his head, Mike laughed.  “They’re perfectly nice children.  They just get a bit riled up when you’re around.  I think Junior idolizes you more than a little.”

Harvey snorted.  “God help me.”

“God help his parents.”

They finished their dinner, talking desultorily, mostly concerning the small, seemingly inconsequential bits of their lives.  Harvey looked forward every day to these moments between them, perhaps even more than the time spent upstairs in their bedroom.  It was so easy with Mike, so effortless and … perfect.

As Mike cleared the table, Harvey poured them each a glass of port, and carried them into the parlor.  It was a warm enough day that the fire had not been lit.  Mike sat in the matching wing chair, took his glass, and raised it. 

“To the best year of my life,” he said.

“And mine.”  Harvey touched his glass to Mike’s.  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small gift box. 

“What’s that?” asked Mike.

Harvey shrugged off his sudden case of nerves.  “Mr. Jhang asked to pay his fee in kind.  I hope … well, just open it.”

Mike stared at him for long seconds, and then plucked off the top of the box.  A pair of gold bands nestled atop a scrap of silk cloth.  Each ring was inlaid with delicate patterns of jade and lapis, creating a stylized wing pattern.  Mike lifted one out to examine it.  As the light caught the inside, he saw that something had been inscribed there.  He peered more closely, and read aloud, “He Whom I Was Seeking.” 

His gaze shot over to Harvey, who saw tears threatening, turning Mike’s eyes a vibrant blue which rivaled the lapis.  “That’s from the poem you recited for me, our first night together.”  He lifted the second ring.  “Are they both – ”

“They are identical.  Mr. Zhang suggested the wing pattern, to signify his culture’s calendar.  In China, this is the year of the rooster.”  He smiled wickedly.  “Or, if you prefer, the year of the cock.”

Mike blushed and laughed at the same time.  When he made as if to place the ring on his finger, Harvey stopped him, taking possession of the ring.  “Allow me.”  He slid the ring onto Mike’s finger, the one which would have held a wedding band, if that were permitted for people such as them.  He raised Mike’s hand, and kissed the ring.  “I love you, and I always will.”

Expression serious now, as if understanding the importance of the occasion, Mike took the other ring and placed it on Harvey’s finger.  “I love you, and always will.”

Cupping Mike’s face, Harvey kissed him tenderly.  Grasping his hand, he led him up the stairs and to their bedroom.

 

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for A Discerning Eye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739163) by [IamJohnLocked4art (IamJohnLocked4life)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4art)




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